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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29407137">Of Tessera and Tomorrows</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelanijaParadis/pseuds/MelanijaParadis'>MelanijaParadis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Amber Apologues [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Charmed (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - England, Alternate Universe - Paris, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Married Life, Valentine's Day Fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:40:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,518</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29407137</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelanijaParadis/pseuds/MelanijaParadis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>These are vignettes of Hacy's married life, starting with Valentine's Day as a newly married couple.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Greenwood &amp; Macy Vaughn, Harry Greenwood/Macy Vaughn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Amber Apologues [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2062569</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. My Funny Valentine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Macy has a heart-to-heart with Harry about their future, and the idea of kids...someday.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>“Tessera Nightclub” is also seen in “Of Lorenz Theory &amp; Love,” “Of Ginger &amp; Spice,” and “Matilda, Child of Fire.”</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>1 My Funny Valentine</p><p>
  <em>4 pm, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Macy leaned on the kitchen entryway, watching her husband hum “My Funny Valentine,” oblivious to all but the music emanating from his earbugs, specially patented by Macy some months before.</p><p><em>Harry. </em>Her<em> Harry.</em></p><p>“My funny valentine…sweet comic valentine…” Aproned, he swept an arm across the countertop before him, deftly balancing the jar of cumin in his hand as he massaged spices into the rack of lamb for <em>hers </em>truly. Macy bit back a laugh as he continued singing, his lyrics growing louder, more booming by the minute, until she stepped forward, continuing the song.</p><p>He halted in his tracks, realizing for the first time he wasn’t alone in the kitchen. <em>Who—? </em>Then he smiled. <em>Macy. His love.</em></p><p>“You’re my favorite work of art…” she sang, letting the melody linger in the air as their lips found each other’s in a heady kiss. She smoothed a stray tendril of chestnut hair that stuck out <em>just </em>so, as he cupped her cheek ever-so-gently. “<em>Mmmm…</em>” she murmured aloud. “<em>I could get used to this…”</em></p><p><em>“As could I—” </em>he all but growled, sucking on a certain sensitive part of Macy’s neck that cause her toes to curl ever-so-slightly—</p><p><em>“</em>Ahem<em>—”</em></p><p>The pair sprang apart and straightened their clothing as Mel stood in the entryway. “I’m headed out for the night—”</p><p>“Oooh, who with?” Maggie’s voice emanated from the hallway behind her.</p><p>“Nobody!” Mel seemed rather quick to respond as Maggie reached an arm—<em>two women, surrounded by pink hearts and crimson roses, sitting in a Jazz Club filled with rose quartz, gauzy tapestries, and—</em></p><p>Signage. <em>Tessera Nightclub. Manchester. </em>“England?” Maggie exclaimed incredulously, as Mel blushed a deep crimson. “What’s in <em>England?” </em>Maggie reached an arm out as Mel jumped away.</p><p>“<em>Boundaries, </em>Maggie!”</p><p>“Oh, <em>fine,” </em>the youngest responded in a huff as Mel quickly exited the manor a moment later. Turning to the kitchen, she asked, “you two?”</p><p>“Um…just something, y’know,” Macy tilted her head. “Low-key…”</p><p>Maggie couldn’t help but smirk. “Low-key, as in that time you two nearly brought the house down, and loosened every portrait frame and attic shelf?”</p><p>Harry stammered. “T-that was different—” Their honeymoon night unceremoniously interrupted by a band of roving ghouls, <em>that </em>sultry incident was a rain check of sorts, which he and Macy remembered. <em>Vividly. </em>He swore her scream could be heard for miles…oh <em>my…</em></p><p>“<em>Right. </em>So, I’ll be at Jordan’s. Just so you know. In case. <em>Have fun you two!” </em>Maggie gave a cheerful shoulder shrug, waving at the pair a bit too merrily before departing.</p><p>
  <em>6 pm, Dining Room, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Candlelight, soft orchestral jazz, and fancy tablecloth linen were on display; Harry had pulled out all the stops. “Wow,” Macy breathed. “It’s beautiful…” She turned around and noticed him waiting. “Is there something I…forgot?”</p><p>He chuckled. “Not in the slightest. I just planned on pulling your chair and seating you, as they do in fine dining establishments.”</p><p>“Oh—<em>oh…” </em>Macy knew she’d chosen well. “And thanks for making the rack of lamb—”</p><p>They gave each other knowing glances, recalling how the previous year involved her insisting <em>she </em>bake the roast, which resulted in her burning it to a crisp. Then, once things had gotten hot and heavy, Maggie and Jordan returning and surprising them both in the living room. “<em>Poor Jordan,” </em>Macy remarked, before reaching for her wineglass.</p><p>“Indeed,<em>” </em>Harry answered with a slight cringe. “As Maggie would put it—”</p><p>“<em>Not enough alcohol in the world!” </em>They completed the sentence in unison, bursting into laughter. Luckily, Jordan had enough sense to whisk Maggie away, and things had proceeded from there…</p><p>
  <em>7 pm, Vera Manor Garden, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>An hour later and after much-needed dancing and the beginnings of star-gazing, Macy finally gathered up the courage to broach a certain subject. <em>Kids. </em></p><p>It wasn’t a question of <em>whether </em>to have kids. They both wanted them. It was more a question of <em>when.</em></p><p>
  <em>Once Macy’s science career took off.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Once her sisters had gotten settled in their jobs.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Once imminent danger was gone.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Once she and Harry were married.</em>
</p><p>But, as she was in her early-to-mid thirties, she understood there was such thing as a biological clock. “Harry,” she began.</p><p>“Macy, <em>love, </em>what is it?” He detected a shadow, a type of…<em>was it sorrow? Fear? </em>Whatever it was, he wanted to cure it—<em>fix </em>it—<em>heal </em>it—</p><p>“Have you ever thought about us…having kids?”</p><p>He smiled. “Plenty of times.” <em>Too </em>many times, if he were entirely honest. He imagined cooking in the kitchen with an infant strapped to his chest, while he sang songs of his 1930s upbringing. Perhaps helping a little curly-haired girl conduct introductory science experiments with water and oil, or perhaps baking soda, under the watchful eye of her mother.</p><p>“What about…<em>when </em>to have them?” Macy ventured hesitantly, staring down at her hands.</p><p>Harry’s smile broadened. “Are you trying to tell me…?”</p><p>“That I’m ready?” She blinked hard a few times, trying to avoid tearing up. “<em>I think so,” </em>she whispered. “I mean,” she clarified, a bit louder this time, “we’re married, we’re in a decent financial situation, we own Vera Manor outright—I’m also scared that if I overthink this—”</p><p>“That you would change your mind?” She nodded, picking at a cuticle before Harry’s own hand reached forward, caressing her own. “What are you afraid of, having children?”</p><p>“Harry, what am I <em>not </em>afraid of?”</p><p>Harry’s brow furrowed. “I’m not quite sure I understand—”</p><p>“What if…what if our future babies inherit my demon blood? What if I don’t know how to be a mom, since Marisol was never around? What if our children exhibit magic and we have to bind their powers? What if—”</p><p>“Macy—<em>breathe.</em>” She fell silent as he continued. “First, your demon blood was via transfusion. If I suspect correctly, that was a one-off and <em>highly </em>unlikely to be transmissible to future offspring. Second, Marisol has always been with you, even if you didn’t know it—and a part of her rests with your sisters as well—”</p><p>“My sisters?”</p><p>He nodded. “I’m sure Mel and Maggie have a wealth of knowledge, having spent decades with her, and I’m sure they would be <em>more </em>than willing to help you. If I remember correctly, Maggie mentioned something about being an aunt someday at our wedding—”</p><p>“I think ‘give me nieces and nephews’ were her exact words. Granted, she was tipsy during that toast, but—”</p><p>Harry smiled benignly. “Exactly my point. And finally, children and magic—Macy, <em>love, </em>our children haven’t even been conceived yet. I suggest we take one thing at a time.”</p><p>Feeling his hand stroke her own, Macy exhaled, releasing a wave of tension that had been bottled up within. “Sounds reasonable. For the demon blood thing, given my success with the earbugs, I could develop and run a few tests, just in case. For peace of mind? Run some experiments? Maybe? Before said kids are conceived?”</p><p>“As you wish. Though, might I add, from previous experience, having children involves a roll of the dice. Trust the universe, I suppose.”</p><p>“Makes sense,” Macy acknowledged, before an idea suddenly struck her. “If I spend the next few months studying mystical phlebotomy, how about…” She mentally counted the months, realizing it would be mid-summer then. “June or July?”</p><p>“For…?” Harry was confused.</p><p>She leaned over, kissing his cheek, then his lips. “Trying for kids, <em>silly—”</em></p><p>His mouth was a shocked “O.” “<em>Are you certain?” </em></p><p>Macy nodded. “As sure as I’ve ever been. How does two or three sound?”</p><p>Harry’s mouth crinkled upward at each end. “I most <em>certainly </em>fancy the same. We might be able to finagle a short weekend trip, perhaps…” he trailed off, allowing his imagination to get the better of him—</p><p>
  <em>A hotel room, far from Vera Manor—breakfast in bed—an expansive view of the environs—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Macy.</em>
</p><p>“It’s just—” he added hastily, “given our line of work, we can’t go too far. No European castles, I mean. But we could do a quick trip to Bainbridge Island? A view of the water, for <em>utmost </em>relaxation?”</p><p>She acquiesced, pulling him closer into a hug. “Harry, that sounds <em>perfect.”</em></p><p>
  <em>Noon, Next Day, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Tiptoeing into Vera Manor, Maggie smelled delectable French onion soup, with what seemed to be vegan cheese. <em>Her favorite. </em>Standing in the kitchen entryway, she watched the pair laugh and hug each other close as Macy stirred the soup.</p><p><em>You two will make awesome parents one day, </em>she thought to herself with a smile, before disappearing upstairs, where Jordan was waiting.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. B is for Brassicaceae</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Macy debates whether she'd make a good mother, deciding to use the simulation crystal for practice. She has flashbacks to her and Harry's time in the Desolation Islands, S3E3.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Two Weeks Later, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Two weeks and a frustrating number of phlebotomy samples later, Macy had retired to bed, completely and utterly exhausted, the heritability of her transfused blood still undetermined. Perusing a couple of websites while sitting upright, titles of which ranged from “Does Having Children Decline Marital Happiness,” to “Children Opened My Worldview,” and “Ten Pros and Ten Cons of Babies,” she gave a start a moment later, as Harry orbed beside her, gently kissing her curls.</p><p>“You could debate till the cows come home, love, or you could—” he murmured.</p><p>She giggled. “I know, toss the dice. Trust the universe. Right?” as he nodded, planting soft kisses along her neck as she practically sighed in ecstasy, turning off the light and resuming what had begun on the shores of those Desolation Islands of yore…</p><p>
  <em>Next Evening, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Harry busy at a virtual Women’s Studies Webinar, Macy busied herself for bed, skimming internet articles yet again, until one caught her eye. “I Was a Fence-Sitter” (or something like that). Apparently, the recommendation was to imagine—somehow <em>teleport—</em>oneself into a world in which one has a child. <em>Are you happy in that world? Is your spouse? Is your child? </em>The article’s author argued that such a weighty choice involved dry information…as well as emotional intuition.</p><p>And suddenly, an idea struck her.</p><p><em>An alternate reality</em>. She and her sisters were witches, with powerful tools at their disposal, right? Putting down her phone, she debated; should she ask Mel for a time warp to the future? <em>No, </em>she decided immediately. <em>Too risky. </em>And what if she wanted to stay in that reality for more than fifteen minutes? She’d be stuck there forever, and her line would likely cease to exist.</p><p>
  <em>The simulation crystal?</em>
</p><p>Granted, Maggie had snuck away with it years before in a misguided but well-meaning attempt to recover from her breakup with Parker. It had been returned to its rightful owner—<em>Harry—</em>soon after. Much disinfecting later, it sat hidden within his sock drawer. Using her powers, Macy opened the drawer, careful to avoid diverting her eyes, lest the crystal shatter onto the floor.</p><p><em>Could </em>she?</p><p><em>Should </em>she?</p><p>There was no black amber contamination; the crystal shone and sparkled, cool and ready in her outstretched palm. Macy knew Harry would be awhile; Mel and Maggie were out on the town having their own fun. <em>This was</em>, she supposed, <em>as good a time as any</em>.</p><p><em>“A time,” </em>she whispered aloud, her lips kissing the crystal’s surface, “<em>with kids. With Harry.”</em></p><p>
  <em>Next Morning, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p><em>Whoosh</em>—</p><p>She sat up sleepily in bed. <em>Was it morning already? </em>Hearing Harry’s familiar Whitelighter sound, she turned—but his side was empty. <em>Where was he? And why do my hips hurt?</em></p><p>Spotting a bit of movement to her left, she found a pair of large, grey-hued eyes staring at her, <em>curls </em>too. A tiny girl, hiding near the corner of her bed.</p><p>“Uh, do I know you?” Macy squinted, trying to put a name to the (very) adorable face. <em>She looked like someone she should know. A relative? A…? </em>Those eyes, they kind of seemed like Harry’s? That smile, akin to his? Her hue, similar to her own?</p><p>The girl scrambled up and joined her in the covers, hugging her and giggling. “Mommy, you’re being <em>silly.</em>”</p><p>Macy gave a start. <em>“Holy shi—” </em>She stopped mid-word, lest the girl beside her learn new, colorful vocabulary. “—<em>ning. Shining.” Whew, that was close. </em>“So…I’m your…mommy?”</p><p>The girl nodded gleefully.</p><p>Okay. <em>Okay then</em>. Macy took a couple of deep breaths before resuming speaking. “I’m…mommy…and you’re…?”</p><p>“Maya Madalena, and Harry’s my daddy, and I’m three and a half years old—" She fidgeted, happy to see Macy in a way that took the latter’s breath away. <em>The little things. </em></p><p>“Daddy told me to tell you breakfast’s ready downstairs!”</p><p><em>Not much had changed, </em>Macy noticed, as she put her slippers on, traipsing downstairs, Maya leading her by the hand.</p><p>
  <em>Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Hearing a familiar voice humming “Beyond the Sea,” Macy walked into the sunlit kitchen, noticing the aroma of sizzling turkey bacon and freshly-made pancakes.</p><p>“<em>Love,” </em>Harry called out in surprise, bending over, kissing her cheek. “I thought we talked about this—”</p><p>“About…?”</p><p>He rubbed her belly, which she noticed, all of a sudden, was quite prominent. “H-how did that—” she stammered. <em>Pregnant? </em></p><p>Harry smirked. “I think you know as well as I <em>exactly </em>how that happened.” To her look of utter incredulity, he elaborated. “The islands? Then a rendezvous at a Portuguese ballroom?”</p><p>“Uh—<em>right—”</em> Harry really <em>was </em>good at planning date nights, even post-kids, it seemed.</p><p>“You really ought to take things easy—”</p><p>“I’m <em>fine—”</em></p><p>“Twins and all—”</p><p><em>Wait—what? </em>She met his eyes and understood he was serious. “<em>T-twins?” </em>she all but squeaked, then reminded herself to stay calm, if not for her sake, then for the babies.</p><p>“Henry and Matilda—” he drew a plate of pancakes and bacon toward her as the trio began to enjoy their breakfast.</p><p>She mulled the scenario over. <em>Maya. Henry. Matilda. </em>That, and her aching hips and swollen feet. “I guess that’s why everything feels<em>—” </em></p><p>“Sore?” He gave a sympathetic look, fully appreciative of the fact it was her bearing his children.</p><p>She nodded. “Something like that. More…” she searched for the word. “Unusual. <em>Uncomfortable.”</em></p><p>Harry reached over. “Perhaps a massage, later this afternoon?”</p><p>Grinning, she speared a piece of pancake, and chewed. “I’d like that <em>very </em>much.” Then a disquieting thought struck her. “What about—” she pointed to Maya, who was happily munching on her own pancakes, which Macy noticed were vaguely Mickey Mouse-shaped.</p><p>“It’s her naptime, so we should be fine, love.”</p><p>
  <em>Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>“<em>Ugh, </em>yes,” Macy groaned, positioned on her side as Harry’s hands made their way along the crests of her work-worn shoulders. <em>Who knew he had such skills? </em>Her heart practically skipped a beat. <em>This is the man I married—</em></p><p>When suddenly, from above, they heard a whoosh, a crash, and <em>sobs—</em></p><p>They started in horror. “<em>Maya—” </em>Macy grabbed ahold of Harry’s arm as they orbed into the attic.</p><p>
  <em>Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Macy stared; there were bits of slime everywhere, a bright flamingo pink. And <em>Maya—</em>covered in the substance, from head-to-toe.</p><p>“<em>Oh my lord</em>…” Harry muttered under his breath as he came toward the girl. “Maya, my sweet, what happened?”</p><p>“I…I…” the child blinked several times and sniffed. “I wanted to do science like mommy…”</p><p>“Maya,” he remonstrated gently. “What have we said about asking mommy for permission?”</p><p>“I-I know…” she looked so crestfallen; Macy walked over as best she could, encircling the girl in a hug, never once caring her own clothes were absorbing the pink goo. “I wanted to surprise her. With—”</p><p>“Slime?” Macy spoke up, recognizing its ingredients, herself having concocted the mixture using an internet recipe decades ago, with similar results. Just then, she and Harry looked at each other, and what started out as a polite cough became a giggle, then a full-on gale of near-hysterical laughter. “<em>Oh my God…” </em>she muttered aloud, as she walked Maya to the bathroom some feet away to get her cleaned up, before turning around. “Harry, do you need…?”</p><p>He waved her away. “<em>Go. </em>It’s fine. I’ll clean this up in a jiffy.”</p><p>
  <em>Two Hours Later, Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Maya having been cleaned up and given her (now supervised) nap time, an idea popped into Macy’s head. <em>A science project. A twilight memory. </em>Having been orbed to the attic by Harry, she called for Maya, who popped round shortly after. “Mommy, whatcha doing?”</p><p>“A science project—that both of us can do.”</p><p>“Harry, can you get the box?” He nodded, producing a cardboard shoebox, which she carefully opened near her microscope. <em>A pair of gleaming, highly-fashionable silver sandals—</em>touching their straps, she was thrust back to one memory in particular, from one cold and fearsome night—</p><p>
  <em>“Dance with me—” he paused, his eyes glowing, wavering with unshed yet ever-present tears; he gazed upon her, as if he saw the very nature of her innermost soul. “Please.” Without a single moment of hesitation, her visage leaned atop his shoulder as she breathed his scent of Old Spice and beautiful, bygone eras, her ebony hair ribbon fluttering in the raucous breeze amid the roaring Arctic waves. Smiling, she blinked once or twice, hardly daring to believe she was here of all places, on a solo adventure with him, even if it was the eleventh hour, the make-or-break—the dawn before the darkness—the sacrifice—of her…</em>
</p><p><em>“</em>Are we gonna <em>wear </em>them?” A tiny voice interrupted Macy’s thoughts.</p><p>“No, sweetie.” She reached forward, scraping silica and volcanic ash from the sandals onto a miniature glass plate, placing it on the microscope frame before them, continuously adjusting the lens frame until a veritable symphony of colors emerged. “Ok, now you try—” as Maya stepped forward, staring into the microscope at the generated image beneath.</p><p>
  <em>Swaying, she murmured his name, soundlessly so. Harry. Harry. Harry—as he, in turn, stroked her curls, an angel’s pillow before the inevitable, enraging, utterly incomprehensible sacrifice of the one he cherished so dear. ‘The universe, it can’t be this cruel. It—it simply can’t.’ A morbid mantra, given the detriment they’d all suffered—the magical world included. But now, their world had molded and narrowed—until it was just two people. Himself and Macy. Their silhouettes flickered about the shore, painting a pretty if not moribund, altogether ephemeral, cerulean image, shining beneath the glow of fluorescent moonbeams…</em>
</p><p>“It’s a rainbow!” Maya squealed, clapping her hands, as Macy and Harry smiled.</p><p>“That’s right! It’s volcanic ash, on microscope. Kerguelen cabbage. <em>Brassicaceae</em>. Can you draw a picture? For science?” Macy caused a few pieces of paper and crayons she’d seen on a nearby table to flutter and weave their way toward them.</p><p>“Yup!” And with that, the girl proceeded to draw, documenting with unusual level of detail, crisscrossed magenta and mandarin orange hues, sapphire blue centers, and fiery amber coloring besides.</p><p>“Maya, love, what have we learned today?” Harry asked, once Maya finished her art, handing it to Macy.</p><p>“Science is cool!”</p><p>“What else?”</p><p>She mulled the question over. “Well…” she remarked, still fidgeting, “I should ask permission before doing science.” Harry and Macy glanced at each other. <em>Good enough.</em></p><p>“<em>And wards—lots of child-proof protection wards—” </em>Macy muttered under her breath as Harry nodded in agreement.</p><p>
  <em>Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>She yawned; <em>how long had she been asleep? </em></p><p>“The whole night,” a deliciously British voice intoned to her right, as she turned to kiss him. “I see the simulation crystal’s getting some use?”</p><p>Macy hesitated, then noticed a piece of paper beneath her pillow, inhaling sharply. <em>Maya’s drawing—but—that was a simulation! </em>“I—uh—wanted to test my child-rearing—this picture—the sandals—”</p><p>“It’s alright, Macy,” he responded with a twinkle in his eye, before responding in a lower voice. “<em>I was there too—”</em></p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh man.</em>
</p><p>“Maya’s cute—adventurous, almost—”</p><p>“<em>Too </em>adventurous,” Harry added softly, rubbing her hand in small, pronounced circles, as they laughed in unison.</p><p>“You made a great dad, Harry—”</p><p>“And you a <em>splendid </em>mum—"</p><p>“Thanks, Harry. I guess. Also. I noticed…I—my stomach was<em>—</em>feet <em>swollen—</em>my hips—oh <em>jeez—</em>carrying <em>twins—</em>and—I was—" Her eyes met his, almost pleadingly so. <em>Would you love me if I looked different? </em></p><p>“<em>Just</em> as exquisitely beautiful as you are right now.” <em>Always. Always, love.</em></p><p>“Do you really mean that, Harry?”</p><p>“With <em>all </em>my heart.” A wink, then he orbed downstairs to prepare her favorite pancakes, and her morning cup of coffee.</p><p>Rising, she noticed a sticky note on his nightstand.</p><p>
  <em>Take Macy to Paris.</em>
</p><p>She bit her lip, a wide grin dancing across her visage. <em>He hadn’t forgotten, after all.</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. This Parisian Dream</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry proposes a date night in Paris, courtesy of the simulation crystal. Macy is fearful of having an allergic reaction.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Can't we stay a little while longer, Harry?” Her voice broke, noting Harry’s familiarly alert expression. “<em>Please</em>?”</p><p>“Your sisters,” he answered. “Duty calls.”</p><p>
  <em>And she knew better than to argue.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Early Afternoon, Command Center, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>The day had begun like any other. Maggie went off to her psychology classes, Mel prepared for, and taught her pre-tenure course, and Macy tinkered in the dank, dimly-lit darkness of SafeSpace’s Command Center. Harry, of course, spent every waking moment within proximity of Macy, when he wasn’t hunting down the next possible cure for this magical affliction—this—</p><p>”<em>Accursed allergy—” </em>he grumbled to himself, for the eleventh time that day. His daring adventure through three tropical rainforests and a deluge of quicksand led to the discovery of a semi-wilted moonflower, which was meant to solve their problems.</p><p>He could sense her perfume—closing his eyes, he dreamt, imagining, within his mind’s eye—</p><p>
  <em>Her luscious curls, wound about his fingers as she emitted a heartfelt moan, piercing through his subconscious as he lavished attentions on her wanting lips, crimson and full, their arms entangled within the other’s as he picked her up, setting her back against the adjoining bookcase as she straddled his form, the two kissing furiously to make up for lost time—</em>
</p><p>Sometime later, Harry glanced at his arms, and at Macy’s some feet away. Red, raw markings scattered themselves about their skin, hive-like and utterly unpleasant. Using her powers, she floated a tube of aloe lotion toward him, which he applied to his own skin. “<em>Thanks, love,” </em>he murmured, albeit despondently.</p><p>
  <em>Alas. Another failed experiment.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mid-Afternoon, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Out of the corner of her eye, Mel spotted a piece of paper. <em>Maya. Henry. Matilda</em>. Pushing her glasses higher, she frowned. <em>Were these…Tulipe witches? A warlock? Victims? Magical beings saved? </em>She shook her head. That was impossible, given their allergy. <em>No way could they possibly…and they were in Macy’s handwriting…</em></p><p>“Mel?” It was Macy.</p><p>“Oh…<em>hey…</em>this yours?” She held out the paper, as Macy let it float gracefully through the air into her own grasp.</p><p>“Yeah, thanks—”</p><p>“Are those…” Mel hesitated. “Witches? Warlocks?”</p><p>Macy bit her lip. “I guess you could…sort of say that.”</p><p><em>Clearly, she’s not telling me something. Ok, I’ll bite. </em>“Maya, as in…Maya Guzman?”</p><p>Macy laughed. “Hadn’t thought of that, but sure, that makes sense. More, Maya as in ‘Maya Angelou.’”</p><p>“Are they…victims?”</p><p>“<em>No!” </em>Macy checked herself, realizing her vehemence. “I mean…I hope they aren’t.” Retreating to the furthest corner of the kitchen, she began brewing herself a cup of decaf.</p><p>The more Mel thought about it, the more things began to click. <em>Maya. Matilda. </em>Both M-letter girl names. <em>Henry. </em>An H-letter name for a boy. <em>Macy. Harry. </em></p><p>
  <em>Huh.</em>
</p><p>To cope with physical separation, Macy had taken to knitting a gender-neutral yellow blanket. Popping gummy vitamins. <em>For her hair, </em>Mel recalled her sister mentioning days ago. And now…<em>decaf?</em></p><p>“Mace—are you...?” Mel let the unspoken word linger in the air as she stared at her older sister. <em>Pregnant?</em></p><p>Macy laughed ruefully. “No. That’s logistically impossible. I can't be within six feet of him. But…” She paused, staring down at the teacup in her hand. “<em>I want to be</em>,” she all but whispered. Being newly married and unable to enjoy anything remotely resembling connubial bliss was already taking a toll on their relationship, whether acknowledged or not.</p><p>“Within six feet or pregnant with Harry's baby?” Mel sympathized with Macy’s plight, but couldn’t help but smile just the tiniest bit. <em>Being an aunt would be amazing.</em></p><p>“Both. Once this...this allergy is gone. Once we find a cure. A vaccine. <em>Something</em>. I want to prepare for if we do. But…what if that never happens?” Macy looked pleadingly at Mel. “And what if we can never hug, or touch or—<em>or—”</em></p><p>“Harry!” Mel exclaimed suddenly, as a familiar figure paused near the kitchen threshold. She made a quick exit through the solarium, careful to avoid being zapped.</p><p>“What was that about?” Harry queried the lovely goddess before him. <em>His Macy.</em></p><p>“Just—um, <em>nothing—”</em></p><p>“<em>Macy.” </em>His gravelly voice sent tremors through her body, filled to the brim with <em>utter </em>want. “What <em>aren’t </em>you telling me, love?”</p><p>She swallowed hard, floating a piece of paper toward him, as they deftly rotated positions across the kitchen island, so he could fix himself a cup of Earl Grey tea. “Mel found my—<em>our—</em>list of names. Must’ve left it here by accident. Can’t imagine how that happened.”</p><p>“Oh, <em>Macy,</em>” he murmured. “<em>Can’t </em>you?”</p><p>And a memory of the evening before resurfaced—an emerald green eyelet wraparound dress, rose lipstick, her tawny curls reshaped into flowing tresses as she prepared fluffy mashed potatoes into artfully-sculpted mounds with shaved carrot garnish, sautéed asparagus stalks, and sliced steak <em>au jus </em>(their ‘<em>filet mignon,’ </em>she imagined). An arugula salad, too, which she assembled with candied pecans.</p><p>
  <em>How did it go again?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Apéritif. Hors d’oeuvres. Entrée. Salade.</em>
</p><p>She’d laid out plain white tablecloth, laser-cut crystal goblets she’d found hidden deep beneath a kitchen cupboard, along with gold-colored cutlery that looked as if King Midas himself had touched it, so shimmering it was. Two fabric napkins, expertly folded per a quick YouTube tutorial, a bouquet of roses from Pike Place Flowers, and a bronze Eiffel Tower replica filled the circular table.</p><p>
  <em>Two—or three candelabras too. Glimmering tealight. The works.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Anything for you, Harry.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Welcome to Paris.</em>
</p><p>She opened her eyes, finding herself standing in the kitchen once more, separated by an invisible menace that had caused physical and emotional havoc within their beautiful little world. <em>Their Paris. </em>“I left it near the sink, didn’t I?”</p><p>
  <em>Late Afternoon, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>After making up an excuse to return to Vera Manor, Harry orbed directly into Macy’s bedroom, making a beeline for her hope chest decorating the foot of her bed. Rummaging through faded quilts and fabrics, his hand made contact with a bound notebook.</p><p>
  <em>Macy’s diary.</em>
</p><p>As the aforementioned woman was back in the Command Center, running test upon test, he understood he had a bit of time before she grew suspicious. <em>She would, </em>he hoped, <em>forgive this intrusion. </em></p><p>
  <em>Just this once.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Late Evening, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Having not seen Harry since dinner—a beautiful roast with green beans Almondine and a crisp, curved Yorkshire pudding—she began to grow worried. <em>Had she acted impetuously the night before? Was the idea of Paris better as a meaningful metaphor in Harry’s mind, than a ‘cute’ reproduction? Had she overstepped? Taken things—</em></p><p>She paused, hearing a buzz. <em>Her phone.</em></p><p>
  <em>Meet me in the attic in five minutes. Bring your imagination. ;)</em>
</p><p>Her eyes were instantly aglow.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Oh <em>my</em>.</p><p>
  <em>Late Evening, Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Having texted him that she was on her way upstairs, she cautiously ascended, her fingers tapping the railing, wondering what <em>exactly </em>her Whitelighter had in store for her this evening. Pushing the door open with a subtle <em>creak, </em>she found him on the opposite end of the room, mere inches away from the octagonal window, staring at the moonlight.</p><p><em>“Macy.” </em>He stepped forward as she instinctively took one step back. “We may need to get close for this—”</p><p>Her brow furrowed. “<em>How </em>close? Define <em>close—</em>” <em>Please, Harry, I love you so much—but please—no explosions. My arms—my skin—</em>she bit her lip, a single tear sliding down her cheek.</p><p>
  <em>It burns.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Please.</em>
</p><p>Noticing her concerned expression, he paused. “Macy, love, do you trust me?” <em>Remember our vows? </em>His raised eyebrow indicated the implicit meaning within.</p><p>“Y-yes, Harry. I trust you.”<em> Always and forever. Right? </em></p><p>She watched as he brandished a familiar object before them—the simulation crystal, its clear quartz positively sparkling of its own accord. “So, uh, how does this work?”</p><p>“Exactly as it’s <em>always </em>worked, love. We touch the orb and end up…elsewhere<em>.</em>”</p><p>“Won’t—won’t it hurt, though?”</p><p>He shook his head. “If we execute this swiftly and seamlessly, we’ll be on an alternate plane before the allergy has a hairbreadth of a second to kick in.”</p><p>Macy inhaled slowly, mentally steeling herself for the inevitable explosion—the <em>raw—</em>the impenetrable <em>scorch. </em>“It—my skin!” Blinking back tears, she realized Harry was now six feet away. “Can we…? In this universe…?”</p><p>“I don’t see why not—”</p><p>“O-ok. Ok then.” She stepped forward; he did too. Slowly, almost <em>frustratingly </em>so. <em>Five feet. Four feet. Three. Two. </em>Mentally preparing herself for a hint of crackle and finding none, she continued onward; he did the same, until they were mere inches apart.</p><p>“You’re doing <em>great, </em>Macy.” His words of encouragement gave her life; they reached for the other’s hand. <em>A finger. Then two. Four.</em></p><p>A swirl of fog enveloped their bodies, as warmth flooded her from within. She tightened her grip as Harry swung her low into a sultry kiss; giggling aloud, her soul was light and carefree once more, if only in this brave, bubbled universe of theirs.</p><p><em>Speaking of which</em>…Macy drew herself upright. “Where <em>are </em>we?” She recognized a towering arch, a café that matched a photo she’d saved on Pinterest, its baguettes and berry tartelettes fresh from the oven. Sculpted gardens in the foreground—the <em>Jardin du Luxembourg—</em>the Luxembourg Gardens, she guessed. The <em>Palais des Tuileries—</em>the Tuileries Palace—not far behind. <em>And was that…</em>”the Eiffel Tower?” She turned to Harry. “Are we…?”</p><p>He nodded. “Macy, <em>welcome to Paris.” </em></p><p>“<em>How </em>did you…? But—wh—when—” she stammered, before throwing herself within his arms, kissing him as if each breath would be their last. With Macy’s form against a nearby pillared statue of Marie de Medici, the royal’s Elizabethan collar and coiffed hair immortalized in marbled form, Harry’s tongue wound its way within her warm, <em>wanting </em>mouth, his hands lifting her thighs, as she straddled him, <em>deliciously </em>so.</p><p><em>“Fuck—” </em>she groaned, as sunlit Parisian scenery turned to sensual lamplit darkness.</p><p>Sometime later—<em>whether it was minutes or hours, Macy did not know—</em>they readjusted their clothes, making for the Seine, as Harry had always planned. Gliding past the cobblestone corridors, she finally asked what had been at the back of her mind. “How did you know?”</p><p>“Your diary—I hope you don’t mind, love—it was just this once—”</p><p>“Oh <em>Harry,” </em>she breathed in his scent, of aged parchment and evergreens. “Thank you!”</p><p>The rest of the evening was a blur, their hands clasped together as they watched the ephemeral, cerulean glow of the Seine River, illuminated every so often in pools of flowing amber where light reflected upon its cool, rippled surface. Afterwards, they found themselves in the little café down the way, sharing a glistening berry tartelette.</p><p>
  <em>This was, as it seemed, paradise—</em>
</p><p>Suddenly, Harry’s eyes widened. <em>Of course, </em>Macy realized, as her heart sank. <em>Whitelighter duties.</em></p><p>“Can't we stay a little while longer, Harry?” Her voice broke, noting Harry’s familiarly alert expression. “<em>Please</em>?”</p><p>“Your sisters,” he answered. “Duty calls.”</p><p>
  <em>And she knew better than to argue.</em>
</p><p>Noting his beloved’s sorrowful expression, he was quick to offer reassurances. “I promise there will be more,” he murmured, stroking her curls, inhaling her cinnamon scent as their fingers danced together for the last time that night. “More Seine…more lamplight…more Paris…” His eyes sparkled, nearly brimming over with unshed tears, as he wiped Macy’s cheek.</p><p>Planting a kiss upon her forehead, her cheek, and finally her lips, he spoke again, this time moving to six feet’s worth of distance apart. “Next week, same time, same place, love?”</p><p>“<em>Absolutely</em>.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Of Cathedrals and Cottages</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Both exhausted, Harry and Macy are on their next simulation crystal date. She takes a nap mid-way through, then he shows her a place he built to (re)kindle their love.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Another week came and went; this time, Macy found herself in an elegant Parisian restaurant booth made of plush royal blue velvet, with a couple of blood-orange-hued pillows tastefully scattered about. The windows were adorned with what looked to be Japanese <em>kirigami,</em> paper intricately cut to resemble daisies, chamomile, and feverfew. Before them was a yellow concoction in a tall-stemmed glass, and a crimson liquid besides.</p><p>
  <em>Special beverages. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>When in Rome, as the adage went. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Or in this case, France.</em>
</p><p>Oiseau Jaune (Yellow Bird) and a Pêche Pétillante (Peach Fizz), respectively. Above them was a single amber-gold fabric lantern, illuminating the table on which their hands lay, thoroughly intertwined in the other’s.</p><p>
  <em>Bliss.</em>
</p><p>Macy sat back, arms outstretched, and sighed happily. Her week had been, in a word, <em>exhausting. </em>First Tyrannosaurus Hex, then the Seamstress, a moniker for the figure seen tearing away at the very fabric of the universe as she watched in equal parts horror and disbelief. Squeezing Harry’s hand once, then <em>twice </em>more, she massaged her temple—</p><p>“Love, are you unwell?”</p><p>She smiled; even at his most fatigued, Harry always put others’ needs before his own—though this could easily be both boon and burden, depending on the circumstance. “I’m <em>fine</em>, Harry. I’m surprised you’re not snoring—”</p><p>Mouth pursed in a familiarly prissy, altogether kissable fashion, he replied. “Whitelighters <em>don’t </em>sleep—” he stifled a yawn, “—<em>much.” </em>Peering at his wristwatch, his gaze met her own as she felt a sudden shiver of dread. She was pretty sure what that meant; their alternate “other” time, coming to a decided close, prematurely, ephemerally so—</p><p>“<em>Already?” </em>Her voice shook as she made to stroke his hand in infinity symbols, one after the other, as if, by osmosis, encouraging him to—just—<em>stay. </em>If not for an hour, then for mere minutes, seconds more…</p><p>Chuckling, he shook his head. “I promised you a date night—a soirée—did I not?”</p><p>Frowning, Macy’s fingers disentangled themselves from his, as she continued to study his visage. “I thought…” she began slowly, “that <em>this </em>was our date.”</p><p>“No, love.” He stood, hand outstretched. “There’s a couple more places we shall visit tonight. If you’re up to it?”</p><p>Though her muscles ached with bone-deep exhaustion, she took his hand, biting back a smile. “Lead the way, Harry Greenwood.”</p><p>Scenery swirled about them as they landed outside what appeared to be—</p><p>She gasped—</p><p>The Nôtre Dame de Paris? <em>The </em>cathedral itself?</p><p>Macy had read earlier that the structure had been closed for repairs due to a fire, and not yet set to fully reopen for another some years; she missed her chance back then to visit, but now? Harry strode forward, opening the front grated door with surprising ease. “After you, love.”</p><p>Throwing him a coquettish smile, she strode through as he followed, swiftly taking her hand again. Directing her to a hidden circular staircase, they proceeded up—upwards—and further on—her legs <em>ached </em>with the effort, but Harry was positively skipping as if he had a surprise, and far be it for her to disappoint.</p><p>Luckily, the seating was soft and surprisingly comfortable, if not just the tiniest bit musty from sheer age. For all it appeared, they were…she bent forward, surveying her elevated surroundings. <em>Backstage? Inside a…cathedral?</em></p><p>Given that this was to be a date night, she was somewhat puzzled, to say the least. “Harry, what—”</p><p>His finger met her lips; resisting the urge to nibble on it—<em>this once—</em>she followed his glance to an altogether ethereal glow of hundreds…no, <em>thousands…</em>of candles, all surrounding—</p><p>Squinting, Macy realized there were four figures on this candlelit stage. Two violinists, a cellist, and…maybe another cellist. Or bassist. “A concert?” she spoke aloud, as he nodded.</p><p>“A candlelight musical performance in the nave,” he clarified. “A new chamber music project by a nonprofit collective—”</p><p>She squeezed his hand. “It’s <em>brilliant! </em>And <em>beautiful</em>,” she murmured as the music commenced shortly thereafter. A beautiful <em>Adagio, </em>an <em>Allegro </em>movement, and what swiftly followed, an <em>Andante </em>movement so <em>lentement </em>and soothing she found herself nodding off on his shoulder.</p><p>“I-I’m sorry, Harry,” Macy remarked with some regret, several minutes later. “I wish I were more awake—it’s been a—I just need half an hour—”</p><p>He rubbed circles upon soothing circles on her smooth melanin palm. “Crazy week, love.” Planting a kiss atop her forehead, he murmured in her ear, “rest up, my sweet—take <em>all </em>the time you need—this universe is ours and ours alone—” lulling her into a soft, restful slumber.</p><p>Thirty minutes later, she blinked, rubbed her eyes, finding herself perched upon his shoulder, his own eyes glistening, gazing at her as though she hung the moon and the stars, goddess though she was.</p><p>“Did you achieve your beauty rest, love?”</p><p>“I think so, Harry.” They stood and stretched, after which they descended the stairs, went out-of-doors, to the open-air of their little wonderland, constellations lighting up the indigo sky above.</p><p>“Mace, to make up for last week’s date that ended rather…<em>abruptly</em>, I have one final location—nothing too far,” he hastily added. “Would you like to go home, or see this final place?”</p><p>“The latter.”</p><p>“<em>That’s my girl,” </em>he murmured, as scenery swept around; they found themselves along what Macy recognized as the Seine, its moonlit river glowing in all its serenity and wonder. But…she stared. The landscape further out was more…more <em>mountainous. </em>With more…<em>trees.</em></p><p>And then she spotted it.</p><p>A grey-wood pier, with rows on either side of shimmering white candlelight, leading to a quaint cottage, its overhead tree branches filled with thousands of sparkling tea lights of every which size and shape.</p><p>“<em>Harry!” </em>she gasped. “How did you—”</p><p>“You were looking for a sanctuary from reality where we were unable to ‘love fully,’ so to speak. <em>Macy,</em>” he continued, never once breaking his gaze, “I love you as fully as I know how. And I want more moments—holding hands, being—‘<em>all sorts of weird’</em>—those thrillingly breathtaking parts—with you.”</p><p>Her lips poised against his, she whispered, “what we have—it’s pretty magical.”</p><p>“Oh Macy,” displaying his quintessentially British smile. “<em>That it is.”</em></p><p>And they proceeded into the cottage together.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Yves Delorme et Dumas</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Maggie is suspicious that Macy and Harry seem so happy despite the magical allergy. Macy tries to devise blood tests (slight mention of blood). Harry and Macy escape to their luxurious Parisian cottage once more.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>One Week Later, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>A raised eyebrow and a sip of her vegan half-caf latte later, Maggie suppressed a yawn, noticing Harry in high spirits, humming a jolly British 1940s era tune under his breath as he retrieved baked breakfast sandwiches, piping hot, fresh from the oven.</p><p>“Thanks Harry,” she remarked as he plopped one onto a ceramic plate, Macy stepping in through the threshold, using her powers to glide the dish toward her. “And uh, thanks, Mace…”</p><p>Taking a bite, the youngest Charmed One savored the faux chickpea-based cheese, warm, gooey, and melted, dancing upon her delicate taste buds—the tofurky bacon, sizzled and crisped to perfection. <em>Oh my God.</em></p><p>Long gone were the days of soggy cereal and halfhearted toast. She just had…<em>a feeling.</em></p><p>“Who are you, and what did you do with our Whitelighter?” she finally managed to say, after wolfing down a third of her tantalizing sandwich.</p><p>Harry and Macy froze. “Pardon?”</p><p>“I’m <em>kidding!” </em>Maggie laughed, seeing their startled faces. “Seriously though, Har, you’ve really outdone yourself—” as Harry and Macy made a hasty exit; Mel was soon approaching.</p><p>“Morning Mel—” her older sister shuffled in, rubbing her eyes.</p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>“Did…” Maggie leaned closer, though still feet away. “Did they…”</p><p>“Did they <em>what?” </em>Mel was clearly hangry, and in no mood to chat, as she cut one of the remaining breakfast sandwiches in half.</p><p>“Um, did they seem…” Maggie paused, searching for the word, “…suspiciously…<em>happy</em>…to you? This morning?”</p><p>Mel yawned. “Honestly, Mags, I think they’re just accepting the situation for what it is. They’re actually adjusting better than I expected.”</p><p>Maggie remained skeptical. “So you’re saying, they’re in a good mood…<em>just because?”</em></p><p>Her older sister nodded, taking another bite. “Just because.”</p><p>
  <em>Same Morning, Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>“Do you think they suspect anything?” Macy asked, between bites of her own breakfast sandwich.</p><p>Dabbing his mouth with a cloth napkin, Harry frowned. “I doubt it. Knowing your sisters, wouldn’t they have said something?”</p><p>She paused. “I don’t know. Maybe. Or not. Anyways—” she turned to the myriad test tubes, the makeshift magnetic stirrer, microscope, and hot plate. “We’ve got more work to do—or I do—the blood tests—"</p><p>“More <em>we,</em> love. This concerns <em>us, </em>after all—”</p><p>Macy smiled. Even in moments of worry, stress, and panic, somehow Harry knew how to assuage.</p><p>Fifteen minutes later, she recited an enchantment which she had read about, from the Book of Elders, interspersed with her own words:</p><p>
  <em>Quo probare sanguine,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My spirit it doth clean,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Quo probare sanguine,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Design this test,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Put my fears to rest.</em>
</p><p>Instantly, a couple of tiny vials filled with droplets of her blood. Gasping from the prickling sensation, she swayed, Harry making to seize her arm to hold her steady, before realizing the magical allergy made such an act accursedly impossible.</p><p>“Mace—” his voice felt as though coated with sandpaper, as he pushed an overstuffed armchair her way, her form sinking into it the next instant. “<em>Macy, </em>love, you don’t have to do this—”</p><p>“Harry, there’s no prenatal clinic that tests for—for <em>tainted </em>blood—” She blinked rapidly, tears threatening to spill over, as she took a deep breath, then another, to keep herself from fading out. This enchantment was stronger than she’d expected—or <em>intended.</em></p><p>“Your blood is…<em>different, </em>Macy. Different is not <em>tainted—”</em></p><p>“It is, though. I’ve <em>heard—seen­—</em>things, Harry. What I could pass down—I could create a…a <em>monster. </em>What if—” she held one of the test tubes up, studying it for traces of darkness—<em>indigo, or onyx swirls</em>. “What if we have a part-demon, who blinds her babysitter on purpose? Who derives sheer joy from inflicting curses on her mother?”</p><p>“<em>Macy.” </em>A statement, not a question. “What is this <em>really </em>about?”</p><p>She hesitated, before responding in a low voice. “The she-devil.”</p><p>
  <em>Oh. Right. He should have guessed. Abigael.</em>
</p><p>“Love, our children would be nothing <em>like </em>her—”</p><p>“You don’t know that—” She recalled that false implanted memory of so long ago, courtesy of a certain Mykonos-based Elder. <em>Abigael, a wife. And Macy, an uninvited houseguest—</em></p><p>He reached forward—<em>as much as their limitations allowed</em>—staring into her eyes all the while, a certain <em>frisson </em>of crackling energy emanating from their fingertips. “But I <em>do. </em>Based on what Melonie’s told me, such behavior was a direct result of being unloved throughout her life, nearly killed by her own father at an impressionable age, with icy maternal relations to boot. Her own personality was conniving and motivated by revenge. <em>Your </em>situation, as I’ve told you time and time again, is mere <em>transfusion </em>out of sheer familial love<em>. </em>It’s a minute risk—”</p><p>She disentangled her fingers from the sparks generated. “But a risk nonetheless.” Flipping through her printouts of holistic <em>sanguinem </em>remedies and state-of-the-art plasma separation techniques, she began to draw up a prototype. “Whatever happens, I want to know I did everything I could. As a parent, you can understand that, right, Harry? Can’t you?”</p><p>“Yes—” he swallowed hard. “Of—of course.”</p><p>
  <em>Noon, Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Macy’s stomach rumbled. “How’s it already noon?” she wondered aloud, checking her phone. So far, she had formulated several possible sketched designs, each accounting for the various genetic polymerase patterns, adenine variances included. In such short a time, a surprising amount of progress had been made.</p><p>“Ugh, I’m <em>starving—" And where had Harry gone?</em></p><p>“I think—” she heard a murmur behind her. <em>Harry. </em>“I think it’s time to take a break, put the test tubes down, and clear our heads. What do you say, love?”</p><p>She made as if to protest, then turned around, hearing the familiar <em>clink </em>of silverware against a certain crystal vase, filled with three roses, along with a hearty <em>croque-monsieur </em>sandwich and a side of long-wedged dill pickles. “Oh <em>Harry,” </em>she sighed happily. “I could hug and kiss you right now—”</p><p>“Perhaps we’ll get that chance soon enough…” his voice trailed off. “Tonight, same place, same time?”</p><p>“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”</p><p>
  <em>Simulation Crystal, Paris, France</em>
</p><p>Hours upon hours later, she awoke, her slim fingers running across expensive <em>Yves Delorme</em> cotton sheets, her head gently situated against the fluffiest Parisian <em>Dumas </em>pillow to top all pillows. <em>With touching possible only in this reality, Harry somehow always made it magical, down to the most infinitesimal of details. </em>Hearing a jazz tune in the other room of the cottage, she rose, her silk turquoise negligee showcasing every sumptuous curve.</p><p>She uttered a short gasp—her inner thighs—her legs—ached in a dull sort of way, as though she’d run a marathon—or—had another marathon of an entirely <em>different </em>kind, as she bit back a cheeky smile.</p><p>
  <em>Those hands of his. On her hips—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They would surely get her in trouble one day—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>If they hadn’t already.</em>
</p><p>Steadying her breath, she rounded the corner—</p><p>
  <em>There he was, Harry Greenwood, Whitelighter extraordinaire.</em>
</p><p>His stiff, buttoned-up collar had been replaced by a grey short-sleeved shirt showcasing his musculature; his plain cotton boxers now onyx-hued and utterly sensual. <em>If someone told her he was a model, pre-Whitelighter days—she would have believed them.</em></p><p>A tune—<em>slow bossa—</em>she struggled to place the melody, as his hands danced across the piano. <em>Was it F Major? And how many chord progressions? And just </em>how <em>was that particular harmony possible?</em></p><p>Mid-way through her ruminations, he turned around, as the piano mysteriously began another tune of its own accord. His boxer shorts became formal slacks, his top a suit jacket. In turn, she closed her eyes, imagined—and opened them—</p><p>Finding herself wearing, instead, a long, sequined deep turquoise cocktail gown.</p><p>“Dr. Vaughn, may I have this dance?”</p><p>She grinned, taking his proffered hand. “Of course, Mr. Greenwood. I’d be <em>delighted.”</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. French Riviera Friday</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Morgana the Azores-based magical health practitioner pays a visit to put Macy's genomic fears at rest. Macy and Harry escape to the French Riviera, but.....things....happen. (Note: Morgana's mentioned in OLT&amp;L, OG&amp;S, &amp; MCOF fics).</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Friday Late Afternoon, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Where was it again?</em>
</p><p>Mel searched throughout—under cabinets, the living room sofa cushions, that oddly-shaped chest in the hidden wall of the first floor back closet—<em>where was that damn crystal?</em></p><p>
  <em>Same Late Afternoon, Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>“It’s a cytosine anomaly.”</p><p>Macy’s voice quivered, studying the blood sample before her—her <em>own </em>blood in fact—as Harry drew closer, but not too close—</p><p>“Love, what <em>exactly </em>does that mean?”</p><p>“It means,” she paused, meeting his gaze, her eyes filled with unshed tears, “that I’ve found my demonic genome.”</p><p>“Are—” Harry swallowed hard. “Are you <em>quite </em>certain of that?” His mind raced, considering all the possibilities, each stranger than the next. <em>An errant potion? No. A run-in with…no. </em>“What about your sisters? What if they have the…the <em>anomaly?”</em></p><p>“It’s more…” Macy placed a droplet onto a petri dish, studying the specimen under the microscope, “chimera, actually. My hypothesis is that when I was reawakened, this gene sequence was somehow…<em>chopped…</em>and…<em>mixed. </em>Beautiful, if not diabolical—”</p><p>Harry smiled, albeit poignantly, at his wife’s ability to find elegance in that which was at its heart, the most magico-scientific perplexity he had ever seen.</p><p>“But, to be absolutely sure, I need to run more tests.”</p><p>He froze. “Mace, <em>no—”</em></p><p>“It’s the only way!” She wordlessly pleaded as he shook his head, emphatically so.</p><p><em>No. Absolutely not. </em>“You’ve put your life at risk by performing a magical analysis on your own blood—this has gone <em>too </em>far. At best, you’d have <em>some </em>answers. At worst—” His voice dropped low. “<em>This could destroy the Power of Three. </em>Besides,” he held up a slip of paper, “I’ve managed to get a referral.”</p><p>Macy stared. “A referral? Harry, this goes <em>far </em>beyond modern medicine, this calls for someone magical, someone—”</p><p>“Named Morgana<em>?” </em>A thin voice was heard, its aged bespectacled owner passing through the attic’s entrance to face the pair, her hair curly and auburn.</p><p>“Who…?” <em>Are you? </em>Macy looked at Harry then at the older woman.</p><p>“Morgana, magical, medicinal holistic healer. <em>At </em>your service,” Morgana stated crisply. “<em>Please,” </em>she gestured toward the faded couch. “<em>Do </em>sit—" as all three took a seat, Macy somehow forgetting it was <em>she </em>who owned Vera Manor, not Morgana.</p><p>“Would you fancy a cup of tea?” It was Harry who spoke, ever-cognizant of social norms and niceties, as Morgana nodded.</p><p>“Peppermint, no sugar, no lemon. Thanks, dear,” she responded as Harry quietly orbed to the kitchen, before turning to Macy. “I hear a certain demonic gene’s given you a bit of trouble?”</p><p>“You—you could say that. I guess…” Macy stared at the octagonal window for a moment, composing her thoughts, before facing the woman. “I know someone with it. And—I worry. <em>So </em>much. This someone is vindictive, power-hungry, manipulative, and oftentimes—<em>cold.</em>”</p><p>“My opinion, my sweet,” Morgana began, “is that everyone expected the worst of <em>that </em>someone. A self-fulfilling prophecy—ah, <em>thank you dear—</em>” she said in response to Harry, who’d orbed back with strong cups of tea for all present.</p><p><em>Her </em>Harry. Kind, sweet, generous, thoughtful, mused Macy.</p><p>“Really?” Macy’s voice shook slightly. “I thought nature was part and parcel—”</p><p>“You thought <em>wrong.”</em></p><p>“But—” the younger woman grasped at straws. “You don’t <em>know </em>her—you can’t <em>possibly—”</em></p><p>“Oh, but Macy, I <em>do. </em>You see,” Morgana spoke with a certain dignified air, “<em>I’m </em>part chimera too.”</p><p>Macy gaped. “Y-y-<em>you?” </em>It took every ounce of strength to suppress her telekinesis, her instinctual fight-or-flight response—the sheer visceral response she experienced at hearing the phrase.</p><p>“Well…” Morgana chuckled. “They call it the ‘mischief molecule.’ Less stigmatizing, see.”</p><p>“How…how are you…” Macy searched for the words. <em>Socially sound? Seemingly kind? </em>“…normal?”</p><p>“I was, as they say, ‘a product of my own environment.’ Mischievous as ever, but nothing more dangerous than gluing books together for an April Fool’s Day prank. I was carefully guarded, my origins kept secret, both for my own safety, and for the safety of others. It was also in such low dosage, which also acts in your favor too, dear—”</p><p>Frowning, Macy pondered aloud. “<em>How?”</em></p><p>“The fact you have no active blood—it was mere jumper cables to jump start your system. You didn’t have a long-winding history of the blood in your veins. But even if you had, <em>environment is everything.”</em></p><p>“By environment, you mean…?” Harry asked, between sips of his tea.</p><p>“Is the child <em>loved? </em>Is the child appreciated for who they <em>are </em>rather than who someone thinks they ought to be? Can the child freely express their emotions, be themselves, and be happy?”</p><p>Macy nodded, tension starting to lift from her shoulders, a certain air of weightlessness—of <em>relief—</em>replacing it in its stead.</p><p>“Now, if you’ll allow me—” Morgana placed a hand directly parallel to Macy’s forehead, though a sensible foot away. A small glow emitted forth from her gnarled hand, enveloping the latter woman’s visage in brightness, dissipating seconds later. “<em>Just </em>as I suspected—” Her emerald eyes fixed on the younger pair. “Good news or bad news first?”</p><p>“Bad news,” Macy answered quickly, just as Harry blurted out the opposite. He quietly deferred to his wife. <em>Bad news first, then.</em></p><p>“Very well. Bad news: your future progeny have a one-in-three-chance of inheriting the chimera gene.”</p><p>
  <em>One…in three? Oh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii…..</em>
</p><p>“And—and the <em>good </em>news?” Harry murmured, noticing Macy’s sharp inhalation, not to mention her pallor.</p><p>“The good news…is said progeny will lead a perfectly full and healthy life, and have certain unique…manifestations.”</p><p>“<em>M-manifestations</em>?” Macy’s jaw clenched involuntarily as she fought the urge to cry…or scream. “What manifestations?”</p><p>“Since you asked, they would more likely than not have auburn flame-colored hair, like mine,” Morgana pointed to her own curls. “Plus they would exhibit fire abilities, though there are dampeners for those, and they usually manifest in one’s teens. Nothing quite like a rebellious rager,” she remarked offhandedly, a twinkle in her eye.</p><p>“That—that’s not <em>too </em>scary,” Macy admitted after a beat, slowly digesting the information presented to her. “And these dampeners, how do we get them? Are they expensive? And how early do we have to fire-proof—”</p><p>Morgana laughed. “Honestly, dampeners take only a simple recitation. The fireproofing can be done when building a nursery, flame-resistant windows and fabrics. Nothing overly complicated. Again, the powers will come in one’s teens. But when well-managed and well-raised, such children—the universe is theirs.” She checked the time, appearing immediately startled. “Goodness, is <em>that </em>the time? I must be going—”</p><p>After bidding farewell to the auburn woman, Macy and Harry remained in the attic. “Harry,” Macy finally spoke, “would positive results change anything? Knowing our future kid or kids could have the chimera gene?”</p><p>“No,” he immediately answered. <em>There was no question in his mind. No doubt at all. </em>“I would love them all the same.”</p><p>“I…” she sighed, staring at the ground. “I was afraid you wouldn’t.”</p><p>“Why on <em>earth </em>would you think that, love?”</p><p>“Because—” <em>Abigael. Overlord. Power hunger. Ruthlessness.</em></p><p>He shook his head. “Our children would be an embodiment of the best qualities of their mother—”</p><p>She smiled, her eyes brimming with joy, hopeful, anticipatory, scared, happy, all at once, “—and their father.”</p><p>
  <em>Paris, France, Simulation Crystal</em>
</p><p>She met him at <em>La Marquise, en terrasse, </em>her dress flowing, silky, and chic, his smoke-hued dress shirt displaying his prominent musculature. Enjoying their shared fruit tart, they stretched out upon the teal checkerboard café benches, surveying the flow of pedestrians about them.</p><p>“Love, how about we try something a bit different this time?”</p><p>Macy, detecting in his look a certain amount of <em>hunger…ferocity…</em>she nodded. “Lead the way—”</p><p>
  <em>Early Evening, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>“Argh!!!!!!!” Mel grumbled in frustration, <em>still </em>unable to find exactly what she was looking for. Those Alcatraz monsters weren’t going to vanquish themselves…</p><p>
  <em>Living room: nothing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Kitchen: nothing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Front area: nothing.</em>
</p><p>She paused, debating the merits of finding the spherical object versus incurring her oldest sister’s wrath at having rooted through her bedroom, before racing up the stairs. Between Harry’s kaleidoscope orb incident days earlier and Chupa-Alma the week before that, she and her sisters didn’t have a moment to lose.</p><p>
  <em>Act now, apologize later—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>French Riviera, Simulation Crystal</em>
</p><p>They landed, effortlessly, seamlessly so, upon a cobblestone brick path, surrounded by cacti taller than them, a wide swath of serene, glassy ocean directly ahead. “Harry,” Macy spoke in wonderment, “where <em>are </em>we?”</p><p>He grinned. “Welcome to the French Riviera.”</p><p>Holding hands, they went down the length of the path, exclaiming at the warm, tropical scenery, the colorful flora and fauna, and sweet-smelling plumeria blossoms and honeysuckle clusters in the distance. Finding themselves on the shore, they spotted identical miniature tents—discreet locations for changing into one’s bathing suits.</p><p>But with their abilities, they could easily—and <em>instantaneously—</em>shift into their own outfits. And so they did—Harry wearing the most sensual black shorts imaginable, herself wearing an olive green bikini, equal parts stylish and comfortable.</p><p>
  <em>What if—?</em>
</p><p>Her eyes met his, as they contemplated the possible myriad uses of such a miniature <em>endroit….</em></p><p>
  <em>Early Evening, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>“YES!” Mel did a victory dance, thrilled at having found the once-lost crystal. <em>I found it, I found it, found it—found it—found it—</em></p><p>Before finding herself swept away in a veritable swirl of magic…</p><p>
  <em>French Riviera, Simulation Crystal</em>
</p><p>She landed at the foot of a long brick path, the ocean waves lapping to and fro in the brimming scorch of mid-afternoon sunlight. <em>Huh. Weird. </em>The last time she’d used the object, she’d found herself at Vera Manor, facing a certain glasses-wearing raven-haired ex-girlfriend, carrying a kitten…or was it a lynx cub<em>?</em></p><p>“French Riviera,” a sign read in several languages, including English.</p><p>
  <em>Did monsters lurk in the tropics?</em>
</p><p>Brow furrowed, she continued on, noticing a row of tiny identical pale tents, meant for changing into one’s swimsuit. And one in particular, which was swaying despite lack of discernible breeze…</p><p>Mel hurried on, intrigued. <em>Was this like Death in Paradise? A Scooby-Doo Adventure? </em>Debating whether she was a Velma or a Daphne—likely <em>Velma, </em>she continued, several hundred feet, then fifty, then ten, then five feet away, the shaking growing more prominent the nearer she came.</p><p>“UGH—YES—HARRY—OHHHHHHH---UGHHHHHH—”</p><p>Flinging the tent curtain open, she flinched in horror.</p><p>“Omigawd—GET YOUR OWN DAMN CRYSTAL!” Mel shrieked, staring at the two, both of whom were hurriedly donning their bathing suits, blushing furiously.</p><p>Harry chased after, having quickly re-clothed. “This <em>is </em>my crystal!”</p><p>“Just—EW! Harry! <em>Macy! SERIOUSLY? </em>We’re supposed to be conquering Monster Alcatraz!<em>” </em>She glared at the pair before stomping off…then stomping back. “How do I leave this place anyways—"</p><p>
  <em>Evening, Front Entrance, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Maggie entered, then heard a flurry of raised voices—or was that—<em>one </em>raised voice?</p><p>
  <em>Definitely Mel’s. Weird. </em>
</p><p>A moment later, she nearly collided with her older sister while ascending the stair—</p><p>“<em>Don’t even—”</em></p><p>Maggie held her hands up, letting an irritable Mel pass. “Wasn’t going to—" thinking just how odd it was that it was Mel of all people, butting heads with Macy, given their no-nonsense, practical personalities. “What…” Mel’s form disappeared around the corner—“…happened?”</p><p>
  <em>Evening, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>“How long do you think she’ll stay mad at us?” Macy wondered aloud in the dark, seated, back against the wall directly opposite Harry.</p><p>“Not long, I hope. Melonie’s not one to hold a grudge…for eternity,” came the reply. Then came more silence. Their tropical paradise, interrupted, their world—just as bleak as ever.</p><p>“<em>Harry,” </em>Macy uttered, her voice breaking. “What would you do if we were at the beach? Again?”</p><p>“Well, love,” he answered, thinking through his response, “I would take you to the tent, rain kiss upon kiss onto your skin…and become one with your soul, slowly—sensually—so. And then—”</p><p>“Then?” She blinked back tears. <em>Damn allergy. </em>“Then what?”</p><p>“I would hold a stray tress—a curl of your mahogany hair betwixt my fingers, lean in, and whisper—”</p><p>“What would you say?”</p><p>He smiled, despite the lack of touch this realm had wrought. “I would tell you, as I tell you now, that you are <em>the</em> most beautiful woman in the world.”</p><p>“Oh, <em>Harry,” </em>Macy murmured as she rose, moving gradually as to acclimate her body to his own, until they were mere feet apart, her hand reaching out, creating sparks with his. “The world—it has so much darkness. But with you, I only see the light.”</p><p>“I love you Macy, always and forever.”</p><p>“I love you too, Harry.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. La Bohème & Cherry Blossoms</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry tries to apologize to Mel for her walking in on them in the simulation crystal. Maggie has a talk with Mel. Harry and Macy find their way back to Paris.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Sunday Morning, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p><em>It</em> <em>all began with the breakfast pancakes. </em></p><p>Fluffy, coconut-scented with a sprinkling of cinnamon, with glossy agave syrup on the side, tossed on the sputtering skillet to utter perfection, an aria from Puccini’s “La Bohème” playing in the background as Macy listened from the doorway, blinking away tears, having slept fitfully the night before.</p><p>
  <em>Is this how one apologizes to one’s sister? To one’s charge?</em>
</p><p>It was a start, she knew, with ample culinary assistance from Harry from those several impenetrable feet away.</p><p><em>Not just the pancakes—</em>Macy spotted a few ceramic cups of what had to be Harry’s “limited edition” oat milk cappuccino. Limited edition due to the sheer amount of time involved in creating the beverage. Examining each oat hull for prime freshness—monitoring the water quality once refrigerated—<em>and all that.</em></p><p>
  <em>Who are you, and what have you done with my Harry?</em>
</p><p>This wasn’t the amorous, modern Harry of late, the one whose brimming optimism carried the trio forth into new capers and adventures galore. <em>No—</em>this was…Harry 1.0. <em>Windsor knots. Bowties. </em>Restrained. Straitlaced. Sparse with his words, lest they lean untoward, becoming actions uncontrolled, wild, unbridled, and free.</p><p>“Breakfast’s on the table”—Macy turned, hearing a voice behind her. <em>Soundless orbing. </em></p><p>She shook her head. “I’m not hungry. <em>Besides—” </em>she nodded toward the coconut cinnamon pancakes. “Those are more Mel’s thing.” They heard a familiar stampede of footsteps from the upper staircase. <em>Mel and Maggie. </em>Ducking into a side hallway, her curls now enveloped in impenetrable darkness, she whispered. “<em>I-I’d better go—”</em></p><p>Harry’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears. <em>No more Paris. </em>True, the orb was meant to train, to transform oneself into another unexplored environment—but it had been their one escape—their <em>sanctuary.</em></p><p>“Wow, Har!” Moments later, Maggie took a sip of the beverage. Warm, soothing, and definitely, without a doubt<em>—vegan.</em></p><p>Mel nodded, cutting up forkfuls of coconut pancake before biting into a single morsel—</p><p>
  <em>Instantly, she felt herself transported to her earliest childhood memory, creating ‘coquito sin liquor’—alcohol-free coquito—with none other than Marisol, their mother. “Remember the cinnamon!” her mother’s voice rang out, laughing as Mel’s fingers placed the spiced herb atop the creamy mixture. “Mommy, my hands are sticky—” as a cry emanated from the high chair several feet away. “Who’s my Little Bug?” Her father scooped up the crying infant, jostling her on his shoulder, tears instantly abated—</em>
</p><p>She inhaled sharply, staring at the piece of pancake—the silver fork—the oat milk. <em>What </em>was <em>that? </em>“Harry…” Mel turned to the Whitelighter, currently leaning against the opposite kitchen countertop. “How…<em>how did you know?”</em></p><p>He shrugged. “Just a hunch. To make amends.” Harry coughed indelicately, the horrifying image of Mel discovering himself and Macy in that French beach cabana <em>in flagrante delicto </em>seared into his memory. “I’m really, <em>truly </em>sorry—”</p><p>Mel rolled her eyes. <em>This again? “</em>Harry, whatever—"</p><p>“<em>Not </em>whatever. I have a duty to you three ladies, and <em>clearly </em>I have failed. As such, it is my <em>obligation</em> to make amends—” and with that, he vanished to the attic.</p><p>“Mel, what happened?” Maggie spoke up. “The tension’s so thick I could take a jackhammer—”</p><p>Her older sister flinched. “What is <em>with </em>heterosexuals and their phallic <em>metaphors?” </em>she exclaimed, chopping her pancakes into tinier bits, crumbs practically flying.</p><p>Maggie studied her for a moment, reaching over to place a hand on Mel’s shoulder—</p><p>
  <em>A beach. Pristine, perfect, unblemished—tents, each identical—one swaying in the breeze—curiosity, drawing closer—groans—</em>
</p><p>The youngest Charmed One gave a start, her eyes flying open. “<em>Omigawd,” </em>she whispered, her eyes fixed on Mel’s. “You <em>saw…?” Macy? And Harry? </em></p><p>“Ugh, don’t remind me—and it’s been <em>so </em>awkward. But <em>why </em>the crystal? Why couldn’t they have just…toughed it out? Like the rest of us?” <em>And jeez, those pancakes were really delish. How did Harry find that recipe anyhow?</em></p><p>“Maybe they didn’t see any other options?” Maggie posited. “Maybe…they reached their limit?”</p><p>Mel groused. “Even so, the simulation crystal’s not supposed to be used for that—”</p><p>Maggie winced, just the tiniest bit. “What about that time when I saw Parker in it? Bare-chested?”</p><p>“That was different—you were undergoing severe emotional trauma from a breakup post-failed demonic wedding—Macy’s just stressed from work—and not being close up with Harry 24/7—”</p><p>“Mel,” Maggie spoke up, “what makes <em>Macy’s </em>emotional trauma any less real than mine? Not to mention her—or <em>their—</em>choice of coping mechanism?”</p><p>It was times like these Mel begrudged her younger sister’s psychology prowess. <em>Or maybe ‘begrudged’ was too strong…</em>Maggie bore the uncanny ability to see beneath the surface, dredging up old wounds, hidden injuries, emotional scars—then talking through them, ultimately bandaging them in whatever whimsical, beautiful, bountiful way she could.</p><p>Mel’s shoulders drooped. “<em>It doesn’t,” </em>she all but whispered. “But what about <em>mine?” </em>She stared at the plate before her, pushing it away. “There’s no guidebook on how to love a witch your family wants dead. And by family, I mean—”</p><p>“Macy.” <em>A statement, not a question. </em>Maggie’s eyes softened at Mel’s bittersweet words. “Have you talked to her about it?”</p><p>“I…” Mel heaved a sigh. “I want to, but what if it doesn’t work out? What if Macy throws it back in my face over and over again?”</p><p>“<em>Mel. </em>Do you <em>really </em>think Macy would be that mean?”</p><p>“N-no, but—”</p><p>“I thought you didn’t care about what others thought—Marisol raised you to be strong—”</p><p>“I know—"</p><p>“Then what’s the problem?”</p><p>“The problem is…” Mel trailed off, staring into the distance, before meeting her sister’s eyes. “I’m scared.” <em>Of love. Impermanence. Permanence. Making mistakes. </em>“I push people away, until they leave. And now, I’m…not, and I’m trying hard not to, but…”</p><p>“You know, sis, it’s ok to fall in love. That means growing our family. Our people. You get that, right?”</p><p>“I think so—”</p><p>“I’ve found Jordan. And despite the allergy, we find ways to talk. Macy and Harry, their connection is…<em>transcendental. </em>And they’ve found a way to work around that. <em>The crystal. </em>Now, it’s your turn. Love takes bravery, but sis, it is <em>so </em>worth it.”</p><p>Later that evening, Mel pleaded off dinner, stating she had a place to be. “Tessera Nightclub, Manchester.” <em>England. </em>Everyone’s eyes fell upon her as she made a hasty retreat, the front door banging shut behind her.</p><p>And when Macy and Harry went upstairs and into their shared bedroom, they found a familiar crystal atop their bed with a short note. <em>Here’s your escape. I’ve got mine. </em>Macy smiled as Harry positively blushed. “Oh, Melonie, <em>thank you,</em>” he muttered, tossing away his tie, stifling though it was.</p><p><em>Scenery swirled, midnight’s moon, luminous, turning</em>, <em>walls whirling, the room spinning—</em></p><p>
  <em>Paris, France, Simulation Crystal</em>
</p><p>They opened their eyes, finding themselves surrounded by clusters upon clusters of pale pink cherry blossoms, their petals setting forth onto the sky in a veritable springtime snowdrift. Meeting each other’s gazes, Macy noticed Harry’s <em>frou-frou </em>formality shift into casual-chic khaki slacks and a white button-down, herself wearing a deep magenta sundress. He twirled her, sweeping her low as they laughed, before planting a kiss squarely upon her lips.</p><p><em>“Bienvenue </em><em>à Paris, my love,” </em>he whispered. <em>Welcome to Paris.</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Cobblestones and Catharsis</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Macy boxes at Jordan's gym, injuring herself. Harry wants to hold her but can't. They discuss her experiences leading up to the Shea Group incident, then later end up in Paris, then Montmartre.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Jordan's Gym, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You’re watching your back/Like you can’t relax…</em>
</p><p>THWACK!</p><p>Avril Lavigne’s song “Complicated” blasted forth from her phone, as one gloved hand, then another, made hard contact with the rubberized punching bag, its uppermost chains clinking noisily. <em>A female Rocky, </em>Macy envisioned herself, <em>albeit in SafeSpace confines, </em>her curls knotted into two tightly-wound French braids.</p><p>Tears coursed down her cheeks. She wiped them, exhaling shakily, adrenaline coursing through her veins from her recent (<em>and most unpleasant) </em>encounter with the Shea Group. A certain woman, determined to rip her soul to shreds, with no <em>ifs, ands, or buts, </em>about it. <em>The way she’d reached—calling for security—reporting her—as if she, Dr. Macy Vaughn, were no better than a thief—a common criminal—how DARE she!</em></p><p>
  <em>You try to be cool/You look like a fool to me…</em>
</p><p><em>“One—two—jab—jab—punch—” </em>she muttered under her breath, weight evenly distributed, ready to fight—<em>thank God for Jordan’s gym, if she’d tried any of these moves in a fit of rage—on Lori—she’d be in jail—or six feet under—</em></p><p>Ignoring her phone, she continued her motions as a certain gym owner made his appearance, standing in the glassy threshold, separating her bubble—her sanctified, personal bubble<em>—</em>from the real-world happenings—pro bono legal clinic and vegan taquitos included.</p><p>“Don’t you think you should get that?” Jordan motioned toward Macy’s phone as she paused mid-jab.</p><p>She shook her head. “He knows I’m fine—”</p><p>“<em>Are </em>you?” Jordan studied her. “You look…fifty shades of fury…” He took one step forward then paused, noticing Macy’s death glare. He put his hands up in mock-surrender. “Ok, ok, I get it—you wanna be left alone—"</p><p>
  <em>I see the way you’re acting like you’re somebody else/Gets me frustrated…</em>
</p><p>She continued—<em>punching—side-kicking—</em>anything—<em>anything to make her forget—</em></p><p>Realizing the woman would sooner sprain a muscle than ask for help, Jordan reached into his own pocket, texting Harry.</p><p>
  <em>Get over here Har. You don’t, you’re the Aprilest fool I know. -J-man.</em>
</p><p><em>And—sent. </em>Hopefully he would arrive. Sooner, rather than later. Ideally, not covered in Chupa-Alma goo. <em>Man that stuff was heinous.</em></p><p>The next second, Macy was hit by a sudden sharp pain at her side. <em>A stitch. A cramp. </em>Whatever it was, it hurt like hell. “<em>Shiiiiiiiiiiii…” </em>she groaned, clutching her rib cage. For once, her physicality gave way to all that had happened in this corporeal realm, career disasters included. <em>Her insides, mirroring her outsides. </em>She had once heard that microaggressions over time led to increased blood pressure and shortened longevity. Not to mention, beyond horrific maternal mortality rates from women not being heard by medical practitioners. <em>“Will this be the death of me?”</em> she muttered under her breath.</p><p>“No, it won’t,” a decidedly British voice replied as she spun around, or tried to, at least, before falling forward onto the inch-thick mat before her. Harry teared up, his heart gripped in fear—for though he was in the same room, their accursed allergy prevented him from catching her within his own sturdy arms.</p><p>“Imma…uh, go get some, uh, water…” Jordan backed away, sensing the two needed some time alone. “Icepack’s in the cooler—” with that, it was just Harry and Macy in the gym.</p><p>
  <em>And you fall, and you crawl, and you break…and you turn it into…</em>
</p><p>With a wave of her hand, she used her telekinesis to open the cooler, bringing forth the icepack, gasping as it made contact with her skin. Mere moments later, the knotted tension beneath her ribs released itself as Macy sighed in relief.</p><p>“I wish I had been the one to heal you.”</p><p>“There will be other times.”</p><p>He smiled, albeit sadly. “That, I <em>certainly </em>hope—"</p><p>They gazed at each other for several more seconds before she remembered just exactly what she had been doing. <em>Fighting. Punching. Sparring—</em></p><p>“I need to—” <em>Fight. Spar. Conquer—</em></p><p>“<em>Rest, </em>love.” He parked himself on the nearby bench, motioning her over, hoping the damage was superficial in nature. It seemed to be. “So tell me, how are you approaching—<em>you know—</em>” <em>The Shea Group situation? </em>“Surely the punching bag can take only so much?” He noticed a couple of dents on its surface, not to mention a couple of tears that certainly hadn’t been there before, which matched Macy’s set of sharp, manicured nails—</p><p>“I’ll pay for Jordan to replace it if I have to,” she answered curtly, then felt a wave of remorse. <em>He was only trying to help</em>, she reminded herself. <em>In the only way he could now. </em>She exhaled slowly, head against the back wall. “Sorry, Harry—”</p><p>“No need to apologize. Just…<em>please.” Help me understand? </em>He tilted his head in askance, and she knew instantly what he was thinking, her thoughts beginning to pour forth the next second.</p><p>“I-I’m fighting—fighting the powers that be. I get that I <em>have </em>to. But, Harry, I’ve done that <em>all </em>my life. Boarding school, it meant being the top student and <em>still </em>having to contest being plunked in remedial math. Being told, in college, I was a diversity pick. Scrutinized with suspicion anytime I entered a fancy department store. Being tailed. <em>Followed. Judged. Distrusted. </em>Even in Hilltowne, being told I was a hire that didn't belong—”</p><p>Harry made a face. “What <em>utter</em> imbecile said that?”</p><p>And Macy couldn’t help but feel a glow of inner warmth at his righteous indignation. “Harry…it…that’s not the point. I guess, what I’m saying is…I’m <em>tired. </em>I’m tired of fighting the powers that be. I’ve been battling them, all by myself, from day one—and the battle’s <em>never </em>over—<em>” Maybe it’ll never be.</em></p><p>Harry reflected on her words. “Perhaps not, love. But <em>I’m</em> here, and I will forever be by your side as you fight the rampant misogynoir. For better or for worse—”</p><p>“In sickness and in health?” Macy continued, recalling their marriage vows from earlier.</p><p>“And all that that entails,” he answered, reaching his hand toward hers, as sparks flew aplenty.</p><p>
  <em>Paris, France, Simulation Crystal</em>
</p><p>Several hours later, they found themselves back on the beautiful cobblestone streets of Paris, <em>their </em>Paris, holding hands as though they would never let go—neither in this lifetime, nor the next. Oddly, while passing the <em>Maria </em>café, its marquee in calligraphic gold lettering, she noticed instead of patrons—she stopped—</p><p>
  <em>Teddy bears. Giant teddy bears. </em>
</p><p>Two fluffy teddy bears per circular table, each appeared to be in rapt conversation with their partner, though there was one, a server, she guessed, blown parallel to the sidewalk due to an unexpected breeze. “<em>What the—?” </em>Macy muttered as Harry blinked, taking in the surrealist scene.</p><p>“Sometimes, dreams and frustration make themselves known in peculiar ways in simulation crystals,” he offered by way of explanation as she nodded, turning away to proceed to their next destination—</p><p>
  <em>Montmartre.</em>
</p><p>Closing her eyes, Macy imagined a moss green vintage car with candy-striped cloth chairs packed on its tin roof, a pink Air B&amp;B up ahead, cozily ensconced beneath taller, sun-bleached buildings at least several decades (or more) old. She pictured a stop sign, a circular red mark with a single slash through, typical of European street signs, French beach towns in particular. And <em>ivy, </em>mounds upon mounds, inveigling themselves across the <em>endroits </em>just left of the pink building—based upon a magazine image she and Harry had seen on Instagram earlier that day.</p><p>“Wow—” Harry breathed as Macy’s eyes flew open. <em>There, </em>before them, was exactly what she had envisioned—what <em>they </em>had envisioned. “I <em>adore </em>magic,” he murmured under his breath, before leaning forward, sweeping a lock from her visage. “And I adore <em>you, </em>Macy.”</p><p>She bit her lip, smiling nonetheless. “I love you too, Harry.”</p><p>After they had acclimated to their surroundings, car and cobblestone streets included, Harry made another inquiry. “What’s first on our agenda?”</p><p>“Considering how this week went—how about a jog along the beach? Let out tension—might be cathartic?” She envisioned the most lascivious sports outerwear she could imagine, high-cropped shorts and a tight-fitted crop-top. And indeed, it was so, as Harry’s gaze migrated southward, his breathing growing increasingly labored.</p><p>“That it <em>certainly </em>will be…”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Codex Cures and Tessera Tealights</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Macy develops a vaccine to the magical allergy and tests it on herself, with side effects. Harry, terrified, calls Jordan for help. Later, Harry and Macy escape to Paris then Manchester's Tessera Nightclub, where they run into Mel behind the bar. </p><p>Note: Tessera Nightclub is also seen in my earlier works: Of Lorenz Theory &amp; Love (Macy and Harry's past lives explored during 1940s jazz era), plus Matilda, Child of Fire (Macy and Harry's youngest daughter, a curly-haired redhead, accidentally sets Tessera Nightclub on fire after losing her temper at a not-nice client).</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What was that? </em>
</p><p>Harry jolted awake from where he slept, staring, his eyes readjusting in the darkness, looking for his love who was supposed to be sleeping, albeit several silent feet away. <em>His love. His Macy.</em></p><p>
  <em>A cry—a sob—</em>
</p><p>“<em>I’m coming, love,” </em>he murmured under his breath, preparing to orb upstairs to the attic, but upon second thought, raced out, swiftly closing the bedroom door behind him, off to ascend the rickety staircase.</p><p>At all hours of the day (and night), Macy had spent time carefully extracting scrapings of stone from the pillared plinth that held various indecipherable codexes, each more mysterious than the other. This, she had turned into a sort of…<em>serum…</em>if one could call it that, purified through a borrowed centrifuge until only the barest remnants of mRNA remained.</p><p>“Do you know what this is?” Macy postulated in the previous afternoon’s summery glow, rays of sunshine enveloping her visage as if in halo. He shook his head, eager to discover what she had in store. For every day with her was a thrilling mystery of the most beautiful, sultry sort. “A <em>vaccine, </em>Harry. A vaccine!” Her grin widened as she waved the tiny vial before him. “Something like—” she stopped, Harry’s mouth having dropped, realizing the implications.</p><p>“<em>A cure?”</em></p><p>She nodded. <em>Something like that.</em></p><p>
  <em>Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>He knocked, then pushed the door open upon hearing the barest of moans, running as close as he could to Macy’s side—or feet away, given what he knew or knew not of the vaccine’s innate qualities. “<em>Love,” </em>he panted, his hand positively itching to brush away those curls, those <em>sumptuous, </em>lovely curls. “<em>Macy, </em>what is it?” <em>Tell me. </em>His eyes grew large, his concern deepening by the second as she swayed onto a nearby faded couch.</p><p>“<em>It hurts…</em>” she whispered. Or whimpered. Perhaps both. Spotting the used vial, its contents partially empty,  he shook his head. <em>No. No. NO. </em></p><p>“Mace, <em>please </em>tell me you didn’t!” He wanted to shake her—jolt her out of this—this hellish <em>maelstrom. </em></p><p>“It was…for <em>science…” </em>she continued. “<em>For us…” </em>Taking several shallow breaths, she closed her eyes, willing the spinning in her head, this <em>vertigo</em>, to stop. Finding momentary respite in her symptoms, her breathing steadied, Harry looking on frantically.</p><p>
  <em>Who shall I call?</em>
</p><p>He ran through his list of options, which were woefully slim at best. Magic and medicine didn’t typically interact, and when they did, it could be a recipe for disaster. <em>Who knew about their realm, </em>and <em>could administer first aid?</em></p><p>Harry paused. <em>Of course.</em></p><p>
  <em>Jordan.</em>
</p><p>A frantic call and less than half an hour later, Harry exhaled in relief as Jordan’s familiar footsteps came bounding up the attic stairs. “Oh thank <em>heavens—”</em></p><p><em>“</em>Where is she?” Jordan asked as Harry pointed to the huddled figure. Approaching, he removed various items from his first aid kit. <em>Thermometer, blood pressure cuff, gauze, antiseptic. The works—</em></p><p>“<em>Jordan?” </em>Macy made to sit up but fell over, overcome by a sudden wave of fatigue.</p><p>“Hey, I’m here, no worries. Breath, ‘k?” His voice soothed her soul as she remained where she lay. As Harry watched from a suitable distance, Jordan took her blood pressure and checked her temperature. <em>No fever. And she was conscious. </em>He checked for any signs of bleeding, noticing a single pinprick atop her upper left shoulder, surrounded by—<em>he paused—</em>“Mace, is that…”</p><p>“Glitter? <em>Pixie dust—</em>” she clarified. “Vaccine formulary for easier dosage—”</p><p>“Wait—<em>hold up—</em>Mace, you’re telling me you’re experimenting on <em>yourself?” </em></p><p>“To break the magical allergy—” she tried to explain, as Jordan met Harry’s eyes. <em>Dude, how could you? </em>as Harry fidgeted uncomfortably, remonstrating himself as to his utter seeming uselessness as a Whitelighter.</p><p>“Jordan,” she croaked, “it’s not his fault. I saw a recipe—”</p><p>Rather than break loose the profanity train, Jordan held his tongue. “<em>Where?” </em>he couldn’t help but ask. “Breaking Bad, Martha Stewart edition?”</p><p>She shook her head, envisioning such a ludicrous pairing. “The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Virology research. I saw a job application last week and was called in for a virtual interview today, and I got information—”</p><p>Harry strode closer. “But love, you <em>already </em>have a job.” <em>SafeSpace Seattle? </em>He tilted his head <em>just so</em>, and Macy understood his meaning.</p><p>“I know,” she sighed, avoiding his unrelenting gaze. “I guess…I just wanted to hedge my bets. Kill two birds with one stone—”</p><p>Harry comprehended as much, but fear had grown ahold of him. “Macy, love, you could’ve been <em>seriously </em>injured! <em>Permanently </em>so! Or <em>worse</em>!” He massaged his template as he began pacing about. “Do you value your life so little? <em>Our </em>life together? <em>How could you—"</em></p><p>Macy opened her mouth to speak, but Jordan, sensing tension, intervened. “Macy gets it, Harry. And she didn’t mean to cause worry—<em>right?”</em> She smiled, glad that at least one other in the room was onto her plan, as hairbrained as it was.<em> “</em>So, you figured if the Shea Group shut SafeSpace down, you had a backup plan, <em>and </em>a means to magical allergy vaccination?”</p><p>“Exactly.”</p><p>“But SafeSpace isn’t <em>going </em>anywhere!” Harry protested, as Jordan threw him a <em>look, </em>nodding over at Macy, her curls askew.<em> Dude. Chill. </em></p><p>“Actually…” Jordan paused. “I think Macy’s on to something,” as Harry’s eyebrows raised exponentially higher. “Let me keep an eye on her for another several minutes to check she’s in the clear. Then I’ll take off. Cool?”</p><p>Harry responded with a curt lift of his chin. Once those minutes were up, Jordan took his leave, not before speaking with Harry.</p><p>“I think she’s fine,” he remarked to the Whitelighter as they stood in the attic threshold, Macy having fallen asleep moments before. “Whatever she gave herself, it didn’t mess up her vital signs, and she doesn’t have a fever. No signs of infection.” Harry sighed in relief, before Jordan drew closer. “<em>D’you think…d’you think it’ll really work?” </em></p><p>“Oh Jordan…” his eyes traveled to his serene, slumbering wife. “I haven’t the foggiest idea.”</p><p>
  <em>A Couple Mornings Later, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p><em>Was it morning? </em>Harry glanced at the kitchen clock. <em>11 am. Might as well be noon—</em></p><p>He paused, hearing footsteps from above. <em>The attic. </em>Rather than orb and risk perpetuating the accursed allergy, he waited with bated breath. Macy had spent the past days and nights alternating between the attic and her bedroom in a foggy haze, and lest he disturb her delicate and peculiar sleep patterns, he was tempted to live and let live, fixing her what she was able to eat. <em>A cup of tea. A scone here and there. A nibbled sandwich—</em></p><p><em>Curls</em>—lovely corkscrew curls—gaily bouncing about her melanin visage—were what he first noticed as she shuffled into the kitchen the next second, as she found a seat at the kitchen island.</p><p>“How—how do you feel, love?” Harry asked, studying her cheekbones—her exterior—for any semblance of otherworldly change.</p><p>She smiled, exhaustion seeping through her very pores. “Tired. But…<em>better.</em>”</p><p>“That’s good. You worried me so…”</p><p>“I’m so sorry Harry, I didn’t mean to—”</p><p>“But I know you were doing it for magic—”</p><p>“Yeah. Harry, for <em>us.</em>”</p><p>A thought occurred to him as he laid a plate of home fries and scrambled eggs before her, ketchup and hot sauce included. <em>Carbohydrates and folate. Solid sustenance. </em>“Do you think…it worked?”</p><p>“Only one way to find out—” she met his gaze steadily, imbuing all meaning she could within those well-chosen words, as she began her breakfast.</p><p>A half hour later, once her repast was consumed, the dishes put away, she reached a forefinger toward Harry’s general direction as he stepped closer, <em>tenuously </em>so. “Are you absolutely sure about this, Mace?” he found himself asking, a trace of uncertainty emanating in his voice as she nodded resolutely.</p><p>“It’s now or never—”</p><p><em>Closer, closer still—</em>her forefinger shook as it at once met his own, a modern-day Michelangelo “Creation of Adam”—a differentiated interpretation, but an <em>interpretation </em>nonetheless—</p><p>Eyes firmly shut, she braced herself, physically and mentally, for the circuited shortfall she had experienced time and time again, each burn more agonizing than the next—but—</p><p>
  <em>Nothing.</em>
</p><p>Tentatively so, she reached her pinky outward—a <em>pinky promise</em>—looping around Harry’s own. <em>Could she? </em>She gasped in the next second. <em>No electrostatic shock. </em></p><p>
  <em>No pain.</em>
</p><p>Opening her eyes, she noticed her finger—<em>fingers—</em>now firmly intertwined with <em>his. </em></p><p>“By <em>jove,</em>” Harry murmured in admiration, as they each blinked away tears. “I think you’ve done it!”</p><p>
  <em>Paris, France, Simulation Crystal</em>
</p><p>Rather than test the magical vaccine’s additional capabilities (for fear of exhausting it and them both), Harry proposed a picnic celebration in the heart of the city. Her phone played The Cranberries “Dreams” as they dashed to the location on tandem bicycle, borrowed via Parisian ride share.</p><p><em>Du vin et du pain. Bread and wine, </em>expertly laid out on a red checkered picnic blanket, silverware at the ready from a wicker basket. <em>Du fromage et des fruits, aussi. Cheese and grapes, oh my.</em></p><p>After countless giggles and Eiffel Tower selfies of sheer giddiness and delight, they found themselves traipsing toward <em>Metropolitain, </em>the underground transit system, fluffy pink cherry blossoms blooming overhead. “Where to, my good sir?” she asked Harry, having changed into a chic navy dress, himself donned in matching color-coordinated slacks and silk shirt.</p><p>“Well…for such a celebratory occasion, perhaps Tessera Nightclub?” He vaguely remembered having given Mel, his other charge, his spare simulation crystal for having been so accommodating of his and Macy’s needs lately. <em>But it was daytime, and surely Melonie was teaching? Surely she wouldn’t be there at this hour—</em>he imagined plumes of elegant floor to ceiling indigo tapestries, glittering strands handing from the eaves, from which polished rose quartz crystals hung and glittered in the sconce lamplight.</p><p>
  <em>Yes, Tessera Nightclub would be perfect.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Tessera Nightclub, Manchester, England, Simulation Crystal</em>
</p><p>As scenery swirled around the pair, Macy wondered why Tessera Nightclub rang a bell. <em>It sounds so familiar, like I’ve been there, in a different life, in a different world. But…how? </em>She gave a start, spotting the antiquated marquee. Glittering lights gave way to tapestries as they entered, one draped over the other; they spotted rounded tables, a bar further out, and a stage of velvety curtain, an announcer emceeing the next act, a jazz ensemble from New Orleans. <em>Something about zydeco in the next act, too.</em></p><p>“<em>Oh shiiiiiiiiii…” </em>Mel muttered from behind the bar, herself showing a certain female Brit how to create a new drink, the Indigo Cloud, with a rose quartz stirrer as décor. The latter had swept her brunette strands away from her visage, watching in rapt fascination as the raven-haired woman before her stirred two ounces of vodka, a half ounce of black raspberry liqueur, cranberry juice, and crushed mint leaves to create an enticing beverage—</p><p> “<em>Duck</em>,” Mel hissed as she speedily pushed the Brit to the ground, the latter groaning in the raven-haired woman’s haste.</p><p><em>“What the blazes—” </em>the brunette muttered, massaging her temple, glaring up at her paramour.</p><p>“Who is that?” A familiar, undeniably male British voice inquired.</p><p>Mel nearly jumped out of her skin. <em>Harry. </em>Of course. Harry had a way of approaching that was far too quiet, Macy trailing after. “Nobody...” Mel averted his questioning gaze. “Didn’t know you two’d be here…” she motioned toward Macy who threw her a quizzical expression.</p><p>“Yes, well…we’re in a celebratory mood. The vaccine looks promising,” he spoke happily. “Doesn’t it, love?” he asked of Macy, who drummed her nails along the marble countertop.</p><p>“Yeah…” Macy studied Mel. “How’re <em>you</em> here<em>, </em>anyhow? Not that I mind but—”  </p><p>“Oh. <em>Heh. </em>Harry gave me a spare simulation crystal—”</p><p>Macy arched an eyebrow at Harry, who sheepishly shrugged.  </p><p>“Aren’t you supposed to be teaching?”</p><p>Mel bit her lip. “Yeah, so, we got a half day dismissal for National High Five Day—" she studied the pair before her, “so I took off to practice some bartending. Mixed drinks. Y’know.”</p><p>Something—<em>an ill-natured idea? A discomfiting suspicion?—</em>nibbled at Macy’s subconscious. “Ok. So, uh,” she angled her head as Mel stepped in front of—<em>a person on the bartending floor? </em>“Who’s the girl?”</p><p>Apparently, there was no beating around the bush. “New girl. Training her”—Mel attempted casualness, simultaneously straightening her posture, only to fall forward—</p><p><em>Thump.</em> “Ow!” cried the voice from below.</p><p>Macy raised an eyebrow. <em>What—or who—was her sister hiding?</em></p><p>Sensing Mel’s trepidation, Harry engaged Macy in conversation, gently steering her away from the counter. “Listen love, let’s go to the patio—“</p><p>
  <em>And off they went.</em>
</p><p>Mere moments later, the lady Mel had unceremoniously kept beneath the bar rose, brushing the sides of her blouse to ward off any trace of dust, while throwing a sultry, simmering pout at her raven-haired companion. “She’ll find out eventually, Potion Princess. All the wards in the world—”</p><p>“Don’t you think I know that?”</p><p>Meanwhile, Macy and Harry found themselves at the edge of a fanciful European fountain, a nearby tree glittering in full glorious view of passerby. “Make a wish?” Harry held out a two pence coin, enveloping it within Macy’s smooth, warm hand.</p><p>The silvery currency landed inside the shimmering water with a <em>plink</em> as she made her wish.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Of Serpentine and Solarium</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Due in part to her simulation crystal's wish, Macy and Harry are able to touch in the solarium and things get...sensual. She processes the shock of the situation. They're interrupted by witchly duties and forced apart once more.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Solarium, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Macy hadn’t expected it to happen this soon.</p><p>
  <em>That wish of hers. From that European fount. From their shared simulation crystal.</em>
</p><p>For a time, it came true. And to think, it had all begun with lines crossed, a year ago, thereabouts—</p><p>
  <em>A dark fantasy. A phantasm. A shadowy bedroom, herself sporting a slinky serpentine nightgown, his voice calling out from whence he stood beneath the threshold. Harry. But not a Harry she had been acquainted with in her waking moments. His breath as she made to cover up—with that threadbare shawl of hers—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You sound d-different, Harry—” Her breath—her voice—trembled as he drew closer, none the worse for the wear.</em>
</p><p><em>“Oh Macy,” he uttered as she felt herself tremble, “I </em>am <em>different—"</em></p><p>
  <em> His roving hands explored her form as she ached to join—her lips with his—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No—” and she pouted. Simpered, even, unlike her sensible self. “Not until—” He paused for effect. “Not until—you tell me where you are—”</em>
</p><p>Macy exhaled sharply, massaging her neck, unceremoniously hurtled back to the present. Which included her…and <em>him…</em>atop the solarium floor. Was it really mere moments before—that—<em>that </em>happened?</p><p>She had awoken, trembling, fearing those agonizing burns of flaming spark, but he’d drawn closer all the same, her back flush against the wall, her eyes shut, awaiting—<em>anticipating—</em>pain.</p><p>
  <em>An arm—</em>
</p><p>“How?” she found herself exclaiming incredulously, tears flowing freely now before drinking the very vision of him in, his form penetrating that once-frustrating personal bubble neither warranted nor desired. <em>That damned allergy.</em></p><p>“Just go with it—” he murmured low, as she—and <em>he </em>laughed. And soon, fear surrendered to joy.</p><p>It was supposed to be a quick kiss. A single peck. But—she surveyed her arms, tiny marks indicative of ardent lovebites—a veritable constellation—it had been anything but.</p><p>An invisible line—that <em>allergy</em>—had melted away—for however long, they did not know. Their eyes meeting, they read each other’s thoughts instantaneously after realizing they could touch without repercussion. Their hands, and by extension, the rest of each other. <em>Now.</em></p><p>
  <em>Lines intersecting.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Lines, perpendicular. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Lines upon lines, and that—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Familiar—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Gliding—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sensation. </em>
</p><p>Until they were fully immersed in the other, in <em>every </em>sense of the word. Loudly, ardently so. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted more lines. <em>Lines, </em>comprising the solarium glass windows—those <em>lines, </em>bisecting, artfully cut from a different era, from a ‘once upon a time,’ their panes beginning to thrum with a sensual, lowly rhythm of their own, themselves not caring where one ended and the other began—</p><p>
  <em>BUZZ!</em>
</p><p>Macy groaned, pulling herself to her feet as Harry followed suit. <em>Maggie. </em>Drawing the phone closer, she read the text.</p><p><em>Perfecti. Command Ctr. Now.</em> </p><p>Her wish—<em>their </em>wish—had been cut short, this time by an abrupt summons. But she was a Charmed One, after all, and she had signed up for this all that time ago. Her sisters were counting on her. So was Josefina. Glancing around, she noticed psychology papers askew, along with myriad plant pots tipped over, their soil spilling unreservedly onto cold tile, day fast-fading to impenetrable dusk. Closing her eyes, she visualized order, each line of paper in its exact place, every pot turned right side up, their ceramic surfaces perpendicular as gravity intended.</p><p><em>And it was so, </em>as her telekinesis went to work in the seconds that ensued, Harry holding her hand, never once wanting to part from her touch. And she, his.</p><p>“That was…<em>fantastic,” </em>Harry murmured, thoroughly awed, and Macy knew it wasn’t just her cleaning skills that drew the comment.</p><p><em>SafeSpace, </em>Command<em> Center, Seattle, Washington</em></p><p>Half an hour later, they still held hands beneath the fixed gaze (<em>or glare) </em>of the Perfecti, until jolted apart, searingly so.</p><p>
  <em>Lines drawn, yet again.</em>
</p><p>Macy blinked hard, determined to not let self-pity and despair take hold, as they returned back to Vera Manor. “We’ll have that moment, won’t we?” she spoke aloud, her voice shaking.</p><p>He turned to her, registering her palpable sentiments. <em>Hope juxtaposed with fear. Love mixed with worry. Joy, tempered with loss—hopefully, temporary. No—definitely temporary.</em></p><p>“Always.” Harry smiled, blowing her a kiss. He had to be brave for the both of them, especially today. And going forward. “Tonight?” he inquired in the next breath as she quickly nodded.</p><p><em>Yes, a thousand times yes. </em>They had their simulation crystal, but all she wanted was him in the here and now, magical escapism be damned.</p><p>
  <em>One day, the line would dissolve. To be no more.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>One day.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But not today.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. A Symphony of Sunflowers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Within the simulation crystal, Macy experiences a nightmare. Harry is concerned. They talk it out. Then they get fresh air and rejuvenation in Provence, France.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“Is this your first pregnancy?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She nodded, brushing away mahogany curls, as she set to work completing the form, neatly attached to a singular clipboard. The hallway, she noticed, was eerily empty. The lone medical practitioners passing by wore heavy duty masks and other such gear.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Studying the paperwork, she smiled as she wrote her name. Dr. Macy Vaughn. Female. Age 31—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She paused, hearing a sudden clatter as she suppressed the barest hint of a smile—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The door flew open on the opposite end of the hall as Harry raced forth, pausing, hands on knees, catching his breath before meeting her glance. “Sorry love—I arrived as soon as I could—” his fingers reaching out to create sparks with her gentle, outstretched own. “Those blasted stairs—”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Honestly, Harry—” she laughed aloud. “I’m fine, you didn’t have to—”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“But oh, Macy, I wanted to.” He chose a seat feet away, her purse lifted by her sight, plunked in between to avoid eavesdroppers sitting in between—inadvertent interlopers.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Macy skimmed the rest of the page. Health insurance. Occupation. Residential address. Family history.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Done—done—and—more or less—done.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Then came the fatherly section.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Harry, I’m not sure what to write—”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m not quite certain I know what you mean—”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Macy passed him the clipboard, careful to maintain suitable distance. “Father’s age. I mean—” How could she put this delicately? And would it even make a difference, with regards to her prenatal care? “Harry, are you 37…or your actual age…101?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She thought she detected a trace of his subtle British smile—his upturned lips—his sparkling eyes—but to her horror, his form rapidly transformed, from the Harry she knew, to a fast-fading, near-demise centenarian, his hair turning the purest white, before his physicality began fading completely—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I must take my leave…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And in that moment, he was gone—forever—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Simulation Crystal, Paris, France</em>
</p><p>Macy awoke, heart pounding, stomach churning into her throat as she fled for the bathroom, flushing the toilet a few minutes later.</p><p>“Macy! Mace—” Harry was jolted by his wife’s sudden movements. “Are you alright, love?” He waited for a response but there was only silence. Another flush, followed by his wife—<em>his Macy—</em>slowly trudging back to bed in their sumptuous tealight-decorated cottage within their cozy, beautiful simulation crystal.</p><p>“I—I’m alright—” she stammered, avoiding his glance as he moved closer—for in this little world of theirs, <em>they could—</em>“Harry, forget about it, I—”</p><p>He lifted her chin, until her eyes met his own. <em>Brown, beautiful, and utterly glorious. </em>“No—clearly you are unwell—”</p><p>She shook her head. “I just…” she paused, her mouth suddenly dry. “I had a bad dream. A nightmare—” as Harry enfolded her into his arms.</p><p>Harry frowned. “What sort of nightmare?” <em>Perhaps she had that recurrent nightmare of accidentally receiving her Nobel Prize in the nude? Or that one where she encountered a certain hybrid witch whose red dress triggered unquenchable fear and fury?</em></p><p>As if she could read her Whitelighter’s mind, she shook her head. “Not those,” she replied softly. “I—” she paused, hesitant to reveal the source of her worry. <em>If she gave it a name—</em></p><p>
  <em>If she let this—this nightmare—be spoken—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Would it become a self-fulfilling prophecy?</em>
</p><p>She inhaled. And exhaled. “It was a nightmare—about <em>you</em>. And <em>me</em>,” she added as if in afterthought.</p><p>He flinched, unable to bear the thought of his beloved injured or however tormented, be it in any realm of reality, dreamscape or otherwise. “What were we doing?”</p><p>“We were…” Macy swallowed hard, her hands still clammy as she clutched the silken bedsheets. “In a clinic hallway.”</p><p>Harry frowned. “And…?”</p><p>“We were…I mean…you were…” Macy realized she was beginning to ramble. “Um…I was asking your age. Thirty-seven or your…your biological age. For paperwork.”</p><p>“I assume I was forthcoming?”</p><p>“Y-yeah. You could say that. But—” her voice caught on a sob, as one tear, then another fell, past her cheeks, splashing onto the bedspread. “Then you disappeared. <em>Forever.” </em>She shuddered as he took both of her hands, trying at once to remove her mental anguish, knowing all the while it was physiologically impossible even as a Whitelighter. “<em>I wanted you to stay,” </em>she whispered, “<em>but—but—”</em></p><p>“Macy, <em>love—look—</em>no, <em>look at me—” </em>he gently but firmly turned toward her visage. “I will <em>never </em>stop fighting for us.” Reaching over to stroke her cheek, he kissed first her sloping forehead, then each cheek before tenderly wiping each subsequent tear away.</p><p>“<em>Are you sure?” </em>Doubt creeped in, though her tears began to subside. <em>What if—</em></p><p>
  <em>The allergy.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Their marriage.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Their future—</em>
</p><p>“Do you trust me, in that I have pledged my utter devotion and love toward you?”</p><p>“Yes, Harry—"</p><p>“In sickness and in health?”</p><p>Macy nodded, recalling their vows of yore. “But—I’m worried—” <em>The state of the world. Everything.</em></p><p>“And yet,” he mused, stroking her curls, “we must not exercise such caution, as to forget to live,” echoing Macy’s words uttered what felt like eons ago, when the accursed allergy had first emerged.</p><p>“I know,” she murmured, noticing her husband reaching for a tray—upon which small bowls of crystallized ginger chews and fresh-baked oyster crackers suddenly appeared.</p><p>“I love you with all my heart, Macy,” he smiled, lifting a ginger piece to her lips.</p><p>“Oh Harry,” meaning imbued in the very phrase, “<em>I love you too.”</em></p><p>A couple more hours passed, her heart growing more steadfast and sure, the unnerving experience put to rest, at least for now. “Can we get some fresh air, Harry?” she spoke aloud. “Someplace in France, with flowers?”</p><p>He smiled, equal parts delighted and relieved to see liveliness bloom upon her cheeks. “I know just the place—"</p><p>
  <em>Simulation Crystal, Le Plateau de Valensole, Provence, France</em>
</p><p>They landed softly within a bright field of—</p><p>“Tournesole,” Macy read aloud from a sign. <em>French for sunflowers.</em></p><p>“Yes,” Harry nodded. “Sunflowers. They represent love and ardent admiration. Happiness, too.”</p><p>She smiled. “Wise choice.”</p><p>Each blossom appeared a <em>soleil</em> in miniature, their petals forming elegant rays, light reflecting throughout the floral field from the symphony of color beckoning across the horizon—a brilliant, bold sunrise of peach and goldenrod hues, clouds sprinkled throughout, deepening into cobalt blue.</p><p>As they held hands, exploring one row then another, Macy was reminded of a quote from Albert Camus. “In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. And that makes me happy…” she began, her other hand brushing against shimmering blooms, bright, fresh, and full.</p><p>Harry completed the quote. “…For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger—something better, pushing right back.”</p><p>
  <em>Indeed.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Paris, Je T'Aime</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Macy wakes up to a day with Harry, Parisian adventures included. Luc, the French hotel concierge, hears odd noises from upstairs and investigates. All's well that ends well.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Morning, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Light, <em>delicious sunlight, </em>spilled through Macy’s window, dancing upon her love—her <em>Harry—</em>not upstairs in the lonely attic, but here. <em>Here</em>. Next to her, his hand intertwined with her own as he planted sweet kisses upwards of her shoulder, herself giggling in a certain lighthearted delight the likes of which had been rarely known.</p><p>“Pack your bags, love,” Harry spoke a moment later, as Macy’s hands wove a scarf—<em>her </em>scarf, filled with magenta plumerias—around his neck. As if to say, <em>you’re mine. Forever.</em></p><p>“<em>Why</em>?” Her eyes glittered, equal parts entranced and utterly intrigued. What more could they possibly want—no, <em>wish </em>for—now that they had everything they could possibly desire?</p><p>“I have…a surprise,” murmured Harry cryptically, gathering himself into a seated position, donning his clothes as Macy whimpered—<em>must you leave this bed? </em>A mock-forlorn expression flickered, a pout, however brief.</p><p>“<em>Du calme, </em>patience, love—” he breathed a kiss upon her forehead. “Breakfast awaits. And that I shall sumptuously prepare.” </p><p>
  <em>Afternoon, Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle Washington</em>
</p><p>“M-Macy—” he stuttered, absorbing the sheer seductive, sultry splendor of his <em>amour—</em>those sparkling rhinestones glowing in stark contrast to the heady underground environs, her hair sleek and shining, her visage aglow like none other, her melanin hue on full display, her shapely—he sucked his breath in sharply.</p><p>He knew he was a goner the moment he laid eyes on her.</p><p><em>A surprise. Hints.</em> Their dance upon the frigid waters, not so long ago, he had disclosed his deepest desire of taking her to Paris. And when they danced what easily could have been, but mercifully was not, their last dance, he had briefly closed his eyes, imagining they were dancing along the Seine under lovely Parisian lamplight. <em>A fantasy. One of many. A thought bubble—</em></p><p>But with this allergy removal, and <em>her</em>—she herself was, in a sense, the surprise, Harry silently mused to himself, his eyes lingering upon her beauteous form. For she always managed to delight and intrigue, with that intellect of hers, day after day, of which he <em>never </em>grew tired. He could spend till the end of days and never once long to depart her lovingly celestial presence—this—this <em>queen—</em></p><p>“Har—Harry!” She waved, jolting Harry from his momentary reverie.</p><p>“Wh—huh?” He closed his mouth, suddenly conscious he had been staring just a mite too long. But he knew she did not mind, noticing a subtle smile cross those lips of hers. <em>The taste of which he was fervently becoming reacquainted with.</em></p><p>“The surprise. Speaking of which—” she stepped forward toward the Command Center keypad, Harry inches away, breathing in the scent of her intoxicating tresses. <em>Apple blossoms, this time. </em>“Let’s see if my guess was right—” as she turned the accompanying screen to Paris, France.</p><p>Macy looked at him in askance as he nodded. <em>That’s my Macy. </em>Bags packed, they were off. <em>No pressure.</em> Just—<em>pleasure</em>. The sights and sounds of <em>vrai</em> Paris. Anything else, he would not presume, but would actively, wantonly welcome. <em>He was first and foremost, a gentleman after all. </em>The restaurant reservations had been made—<em>he imagined a champagne toast. </em></p><p>
  <em>A Few Hours Later, Hôtel, Paris, France</em>
</p><p><em>“Qu’est-ce que c’est, alors?” </em>Luc muttered to himself, eyes fixed at his notebook—his pen—the keyboard—all of which were rattling. <em>What is it?</em></p><p>Several minutes passed by; the thrums were growing by the minute. He stared. <em>There was a sort of…rhythm to the madness, eh?  </em></p><p>“Quoi de neuf?” <em>What’s up? </em>His colleague Adrien attempted a light tap upon his shoulder but the latter shushed him, pointing at the three suspect items.</p><p>“Un tremblement de terre?” Adrien joked, though this clearly fell flat, Luc’s brow furrowing, utterly perplexed.</p><p>“J’espère que non…” <em>I hope not…</em>Luc trailed off uncertainly before grabbing his phone. <em>In case of emergencies.</em></p><p>“Où vas-tu?” <em>Where are you going? </em>His coworker called out behind him.</p><p>“En haut.” <em>Upstairs. </em>Thus came Luc’s swift reply as he picked up his pace, dialing the elevator button, the doors opening, then quickly shutting once he’d entered. <em>Guest safety was of utmost importance, bien s</em><em>ûr!</em></p><p>The thrumming, which had gone upon entering the elevator, had returned with renewed vigor moments later as he hit the top level of suites. <em>The American Suites, </em>he oft termed them, due to its proximity to quintessentially <em>touristique </em>Parisian views, Eiffel Tower included. He ran through various possible scenarios, each more unlikely than the next, as the ground continued to tremble beneath him—<em>violently so—</em></p><p>
  <em>CRASH!</em>
</p><p>He stood stock-still, a solitary figure in the chandelier-lit hallway.</p><p>
  <em>And was that a lamp?</em>
</p><p>Luc shook his head, determined to figure out what on earth was the matter. <em>Not earthquakes. Nor trains, the underground would not be alive for another hour—the Paris M</em><em>étropolitain—</em></p><p>
  <em>CRASH!</em>
</p><p>A sound of—of <em>boxes? Luggage, thrown to the opposite wall with passionate, unremitting force? </em>He turned a corner, heading to the furthest suite along the bend. <em>He had to warn the populace, it was his duty as concierge, after all—the velocity at which the objects hit was simply put, unnerving—</em></p><p>Some seconds passed as he broke into a run—his feet making contact with the well-worn carpet for however brief—his fist about to rap upon the sturdy chestnut door—</p><p>
  <em>“HARRY—HARRY!!!!!!"</em>
</p><p>Groans, then—</p><p>
  <em>A flash of blindingly white light.</em>
</p><p>Withdrawing his hand, Luc stared at where the sudden glow had appeared—the crevice between door and floor. <em>Had he imagined it, or…? </em>But he had come here as a matter of safety. He knocked once, then twice, in rapid succession. “Tout va bien?” Luc called out, as he heard—gasps? Had he interrupted something?</p><p>
  <em>Or arrived upon its aftermath?</em>
</p><p>He waited, tapping his foot out of habit as a muffled voice provided response. A <em>female </em>voice by the sound of it.</p><p>“Oui, oui monsieur—” <em>Yes sir—</em></p><p>“Tout…” a second, more baritone voice made itself known this time, “Tout va bien. Tout va bien—” <em>All is well.</em></p><p>“Oui, Madame, et Monsieur,” and just like that, Luc departed, the weight of the world having been lifted in that moment.</p><p>
  <em>All was well.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
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